


willingly, wholeheartedly

by iffervescent



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Anal Sex, Anthony is lowkey obsessed with Simon's beauty, Arranged Marriage, Daphne is a BAMF, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Prince Frederick is a himbo, Regency, Regency Romance, Simon is grumpy, but it's canon they're both terrible at communication so, everything would be fixed if they just talked to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28730898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iffervescent/pseuds/iffervescent
Summary: “Lady Bridgerton,” the Queen says. “I amdispleased.”
Relationships: Simon Basset/Anthony Bridgerton
Comments: 42
Kudos: 387





	willingly, wholeheartedly

“Lady Bridgerton,” the Queen says. “I am _displeased.”_

Violet Bridgerton lets her breath ease out against her stays. She has never grown entirely accustomed to Her Majesty’s presence, even with the more frequent exposure of late. Fortunately that formidable stare only rests upon her a moment before traversing to the companion seated beside her. 

“So I ask you, and the Lady Danbury – what can be done to rectify this situation?” 

“Your Majesty, the Lady Bridgerton and I are at your service.” Lady Danbury says, with a regal nod of her head. She is so very indomitable, why, just being in her presence is a comfort to Violet. She hurriedly adds her own voice to the sentiment. 

“I am sure whatever your Majesty wishes can be achieved.” 

“Good, I am glad you both think so,” the Queen pauses a moment to hand the dog she is stroking off to a lady in waiting so it can be taken to its toilette. Another is promptly deposited in her lap and she returns her gaze to the two of them. “I will say again, Lady Bridgerton, your daughter and my nephew are a most _delightful_ match –” 

“Oh, yes your Majesty, I quite agree –” 

“I was not finished. However, I find myself quite displeased that the Bridgerton-Hastings match I had been looking forward to did not materialise in the end.” The Queen ends her sentence with an elegantly lifted brow and Violet finds herself at quite a loss for words. Whatever can the Queen mean – it is not as if Daphne could have married both of them – 

“Ah…your Majesty…the Duke of Hasting’s heart is still somewhat bruised from its first foray in this particular arena, perhaps next season…” Lady Danbury says, her tone heavy with a hint that quite escapes Violet’s understanding. 

“Next? Next? Why should we wait until next season? Surely he became sufficiently acquainted with the Bridgerton family during his first courtship? Unless we are suggesting that the remainder of Lady Bridgerton’s children would not be suitable…?” 

“No, no, not at all,” the Lady Danbury says quickly, and it is only her wide-eyed glance at Violet herself that makes her realise the Queen’s wishes. 

“Oh! Oh…oh, your Majesty, I do not think…” 

“What possible objections could you have to the match?” the Queen’s piercing gaze immediately switches to her. “Unless you are saying it is the _Duke_ you object to…” 

Violet cannot help her eyes sliding over to meet Lady Danbury’s, to take the smallest bit of comfort from the mirrored dawning helplessness she sees there. It appears the Queen has her mind set upon this match. 

“Come now Lady Bridgerton. List your remaining offspring for me, and let us select the most suitable candidate.” 

Violet’s mind is awhirl. Clearly and yet as tumbling as though she were lost in a spin, she can see each of her children’s faces before her. Oh, oh, how can she possibly steer this choice towards a benevolent future for one of them! For all of them! 

“My…my youngest four are not yet out, your Majesty.” 

“Your youngest three. Your fifth child, Eloise, I have seen her in society and her hems have just been dropped, have they not.” The Queen corrects her, and Violet drops her eyes to the exquisitely patterned rug beneath their feet. It is quite clear the Queen does not need her to list her children at all – she merely wishes it to be Violet who offers them up. 

She can take no comfort in the gently pitying expression on Lady Danbury’s face. Oh, if only her Edmund were still here. She cannot bear to make this choice on her own – if even the Queen intends to let her make it. 

“You…you are quite right your Majesty. My remaining suitable children are Anthony, Benedict, Colin and Eloise.” 

“Hmmmm. The second lad – he is quite tall and comely, is he not? Or the young lady would be the more traditional choice, I am sure she would cope splendidly with a Duchess’ duties –” 

Violet feels a very soft pressure against her chest, as though a gently cooing dove has landed on her breastbone and its feathered weight, though light, is nonetheless pressing down upon her heart and lungs. It is quite clear to her that there is only one thing that would be acceptable. 

The Lady Danbury is opening her mouth to speak and blinks in surprise when Violet barrels past her most uncommonly rudely – she will beg forgiveness later. 

“Oh yes, your Majesty, I quite agree. Anyone other than Anthony would be a superb choice.” 

“Anthony? The Viscount? Why, surely he would be the prime candidate – do you not agree Lady Danbury?” 

Violet takes a sip of her tea, trying to keep her cheeks from flushing as the Lady Danbury’s eyes bore into the side of her face. Her friend’s voice, when it comes, is carefully measured. 

“Well, your Majesty, I do know that the two young men were companions at Oxford so there is the advantage of a friendship there already. But I am sure the Lady Bridgerton was only thinking of his duties as Viscount –” 

“Oh, absolutely.” Violet looks up and beams at them both. “Anthony is quite the most experienced and accomplished in managing an estate and his titled duties, why Benedict would take some years to reach his brother’s level of influence –” 

“Well, that settles it.” The Queen declares, setting her teacup down with a thud. “The Duke is new to his position – he no doubt requires a spouse who has a thorough understanding of all the duties the title will entail. Anthony is quite clearly the best offering. And besides,” she gives a gentle wave of her hand, as though it does not signify the full strength of her arm and her grip and her reach. “The Bridgerton estates are smaller and have been well-managed for generations – I have no doubt that Benedict – ah, the new Viscount Bridgerton – will master his obligations in no time at all.” 

“Your Majesty – perhaps we should – _first_ – inquire of the young men –” Lady Danbury cries, and is immediately interrupted. 

“Why? Are they likely to disagree with their Queen? Is that the sort of young man you both have raised?” 

“Not at all your Majesty.” Violet murmurs. The Lady Danbury’s spine is so rigid she fears it could snap, but after a moment she inclines her head most graciously. 

“We are all dedicated servants of your Majesty.” 

“Excellent! Lady Bridgerton, your son accompanied you here today did he not? Let him present himself then and we shall give him the good news.” 

A footman is dispatched. Violet watches his befrocked back disappear through the doors. In her mind’s eye she can see him hurry down the broad staircase and out of the front doors, round the east wing to the stables. She has never been there herself but she can imagine him stepping into the hay-strewn building, the horse’s heads over their stable doors, politely interrupting her son and the Prince – Prince Augustus she believes, who always stops at Epsom to ask Anthony’s opinion on the runners. She can imagine her son’s face, first surprised, then concerned that perhaps his mother has taken a turn. She knows how his jaw will tighten, to hide any hint of his feeling from the servants or the Prince, and how politely and stiffly he will bow to excuse his attendance, and how swift his steps will be to her side. Thanks to that swiftness it will be far less time than the Queen expects before he is here, to receive the fate his mother has laid out for him. 

“Ah, Lord Bridgerton,” the Queen says, surprise in her voice that is no surprise at all to Violet. “Wonderful. You are acquainted with the Lady Danbury of course?” 

“My Lady.” Anthony says, and Violet must lift her eyes from the tablecloth to gaze at him. Her oldest. Her firstborn. Her darling boy. He glances at her, just the merest flash of an eye, but whatever he sees in her face is enough to set his shoulders as though to prepare for battle. 

Oh, a marriage that doubles as a battlefield, just as her parents had. The one thing she had always so desperately wished to spare her children. 

“Mr Bridgerton,” the Queen says, and _oh_ , the look on her son’s face. The dove on her chest has turned to stone and Violet cannot breathe at all. “You will be honoured and delighted to hear that an arrangement has been agreed upon. Since your sister’s charming match with my own nephew, the Duke of Hastings is in need of a spouse. Your mother, Lady Danbury and I all feel most strongly that you would be the most suitable choice.” 

Anthony takes in a breath, scarcely visible under his layers and cravat. His face does not change. He merely looks to her, as he did so many times when he was a young boy, before Benedict was born and they were each other’s whole world. He looks to her, and Violet looks back and lets him see – 

A choice had to be made. 

To choose Eloise – well, it did not bear thinking of. Her misery would be assured as a Duchess. Colin is one of the rare few whose preference is solely for a single sex – he has no taste for men at all, and she could not send a child to a bedroom they would suffer in. And Benedict, oh, why not Benedict, when this choice dooms him to greater duties either way? 

Because Benedict has never left home, and never shown the slightest desire to. He of all her elder sons plays most devotedly with the younger ones, listens to Eloise and Francesca pour out their hearts, teachers and tutors and encourages and supports. To rip him from his family, send him to Cliveden’s empty and echoing halls… 

Well, she could have done it. And Anthony would never have spoken to her again. 

“You do not speak?” the Queen asks imperiously. The footmen around the room tense. 

“Dear boy, if you should already have an existing attachment, speak now,” the Lady Danbury says, throwing herself before the Queen’s ire like Perseus before Andromeda. “It will be quite forgivable if your heart is already spoken for –” 

“Not at all your Ladyship.” Anthony says. His voice does not waver at all and oh, Violet is so proud of her son. “I should be honoured indeed to wed the Duke.” 

“There.” The Queen’s satisfaction is clear as she raises her teacup and takes a loud slurp. “How splendid. I do expect an invitation to the reception ceremony, Lady Danbury.” 

“Of course your Majesty.” Lady Danbury replies. Anthony bows formally, and is even invited to sit and take tea with them a while, which he does so with carefully-controlled movements only noticeable to a mother’s eyes. The conversation moves on to the Prince’s new horse that will be racing at the Derby and Anthony gives complimentary answers on the filly’s gait and stamina, smiling and charming as he has been raised to be. The Queen is beaming by the time she bids them to leave and Violet must take strength from his example to complete her farewells, lest her knees give way before she make it down the staircase. 

“Mother, the carriage is taking abominably long,” Anthony says, when they have been stood on the steps for less than a heartbeat. “I will go and chivvy it along so you and the Lady Danbury do not have to stand in the cold.” At her nod he heads off, his stride not an inch less long than it would have otherwise been, to gain two precious minutes of solitude for himself as he walks around the east wing in the warm spring sunshine. 

“ _Violet –_ ” Lady Danbury starts, and Violet can only hold up a single gloved hand, begging her friend’s patience a moment longer. Their friendship is an odd one, she knows, in the eyes of many of the _ton_ , where her Ladyship is seen as influential and witty and intelligent, as deft at cards as any man and as politically aware as any peer – indeed, if not more so than most of them! Violet by contrast is a timid mouse to her friend’s hawk. But the friendship formed in letters between them, comparing the stories told by two young men in their first year at Oxford, neither of whom could be relied upon to tell their mama or their guardian the truth. She and Lady Danbury had pierced together many of their exploits over the years by comparing the myths they were told, to the great amusement of them both. 

Neither of them had even dreamed it might lead to a moment such as this. 

“I must most fervently beg your forgiveness Claudia,” she murmurs. 

“Good Lord, the Queen should be begging both of ours,” Lady Danbury mutters, and even in the midst of her tremors Violet hurries to shush her. The palace footmen are worse tattletales than the maids. “She wishes Simon married off before those Saxe-Coburg cousins of hers try to ensnare him and gain a foothold in yet another Duchy. But why she should come to you…and why you should dangle Anthony before her like a string to a housecat, Violet! Surely you must have known she would jump at the one you tried to withhold?” 

“I knew it perfectly well.” Violet says. She has the most withering headache and can barely stand to speak on the matter further. 

“But why?! Why Anthony? Simon has no such feelings towards him at all, for all they have been friends these long years, surely Benedict, or Colin – or even Eloise, I know she is young –” 

“Anthony is the only one who would suit.” 

“But Simon –” 

“My dear Lady Danbury, I must confess I was not thinking of Simon at all.” Violet says hotly, and then has to press a hand against her forehead as she sways. Oh, this sunshine is too abominably hot. Where is Anthony with the carriage, she must have some shade... 

The carriage appears around the side of the palace, Anthony strolling alongside it as though he has not just had his birthright and every future he was prepared for ripped away. Violet finds herself biting at her lip in a most overwrought manner as she looks at him. It is almost enough to distract her from Lady Danbury’s stiff presence at her side – oh, she can’t think of her friend right now, surely their long-standing acquaintance will be enough to salvage the friendship – 

“Was Anthony really the only one who could have borne it?” the Lady asks gently, and Violet feels a rush of gratitude for her friend’s insight and understanding. 

“I believe – yes. Yes, he is,” she says, watching that familiar and most dear face and knowing it has reached the same conclusion. The Lady Danbury heaves out a sigh. 

“Very well. I shall endeavour to soften the Duke to the match, though he has been in a fearsome temper since learning of his steward’s betrayal and I have not had any letters from Cliveden in days.” She puts her head on one side to consider the matter. “Although perhaps he may approach it admirably; the way he speaks of the marriage-hungry mamas of the _ton_ , perhaps he will delight in wedding a friend instead?” 

~ 

_“Bridgerton!”_

The roar echoes through the house and Francesca’s fingers immediately falter on the pianoforte. Anthony can feel every eye of his siblings immediately snap to him, and determinedly does not look up until he has read to the end of his sentence. Then he sits up with a sigh and offers his mother a casual smile, as though they cannot all hear the sound of rapidly approaching booted feet on the stairs. 

“Mother. I believe the Duke of Hastings mentioned he would drop by this morning. As we are officially betrothed I am sure it would be entirely suitable to meet with him in private.” 

“Oh…yes. Of course, Anthony.” The gaze she gives him is very sad, as are the gazes, in order, that Hyacinth, Francesca, Benedict and Eloise all give him. Colin and Daphne and Gregory are his saving grace, the first two in being absent and the last in showing a remarkable amount of insouciance towards his brother’s upcoming nuptials. If only Anthony could muster the same in himself. 

Anthony is ashamed of himself for being amused at the start Simon gives when he storms into the room to find the majority of its inhabitants in the process of quitting it. The shame quickly turns to some other emotion roiling in his stomach however, when after greeting his mother Simon then fumbles over the address to Benedict. 

The title has not yet formally passed over. It will do so on Anthony’s wedding day, when he becomes the Duke-Consort of Hastings, but Eloise has reported that many of the _ton_ have already switched to addressing Benedict as Lord Bridgerton in the last few of the season’s events. 

Anthony has scarcely left the house since he returned from the palace. He does not think he could be held accountable for his actions were he to go to Brooks and be addressed as _Mr Bridgerton_. He half thinks he may combust the day he is first addressed as _your Grace_. He supposes it would be one solution to his current problems – becoming little more than an ashy smear on the cathedral floor, unbeholden to anyone. 

But then the Queen would undoubtedly insist on shoving Benedict in front of Simon instead, and Anthony – who surely has greater familiarity with the characters of his best friend and his brother than any other – knows that it would be a disaster of such magnitude that he would rather stomach his own personal disaster instead. 

His mother and he only spoke of her choice once, in the carriage ride home. He had thanked her for preserving the happiness of his siblings, and she had patted his hand and returned to gazing out the carriage window with a handkerchief pressed to her cheek to catch the tears. 

The memory dances before his eyes as Simon stalks towards him across the room now. He must have ridden over here from Hastings House rather than wait for a carriage to be assembled, Anthony thinks clinically, noting the leaf on his friend’s collar and the slightly darker flush to his cheeks from the breeze. 

Ah. No longer just his friend. His betrothed. 

Simon storms over to loom before the desk and throws down a paper before him. Anthony only has to spare a briefest glance to identify it. 

“I was surprised to find out from _Lady Whistledown_ that I was engaged.” Simon bites out. Anthony does not think he has ever seen him this angry. It makes the banked rage that has been tightly restrained in his own chest simmer in bitter agreement. “Words can scarcely give credit to my next emotions however – first incredulity, then shock, then dismay, to find out from Lady Whistledown that I am engaged to _you_.” 

Anthony half-jerks from his seat at the implied insult and catches himself only just, his fingers going white on the edge of the table. Simon swears and turns on a heel to stride back and forth across the room. Anthony is profoundly grateful his sisters are not present for the display that is undoubtedly about to occur. 

“My apologies for the method of this revelation. The Lady Danbury kindly offered to be the one to write to you to inform you of the Queen’s decision. Did her letter not reach you in time?” 

Simon makes a furious noise and Anthony clenches his jaw. His friend. His friend. Whatever else, that came first. And his friend has only just learnt of this news, so Anthony should not let his hackles rise at his tone – 

“Good God Bridgerton, did you even try to fight it at all, or did you just let yourself be wed off for the family name like one of her dogs?” 

“Hastings you go too far!” Anthony snarls, the anger rising up hot and quick in his chest, a week’s worth of remonstrations and fury just begging to be released – 

Simon is in his face a moment later, his startling eyes dark with temper rather than indulgence for once. 

“Hastings! You begrudge my name whilst taking it as your own! Were the Bridgertons so determined to marry a Duke they did not particularly care which one of you –” 

“Not another word.” Anthony grabs his wrist in one hand. Simon has a small advantage of height, and years of boxing – but Anthony will kill him if he says a word about his mother or the burden she has taken upon herself. “I swear, Simon, not another word.” 

“Well, that will make for a very silent dinner table, let alone a bedroom.” Simon sneers, and then his gaze drops with a level of insolence Anthony did not think his friend possessed as he blatantly looks his figure over. “I had no notion you looked at me in such a way Bridgerton – it quite makes me re-evaluate our entire acquaintance.” 

He is angry. Anthony repeats the words over to himself, trying to quell the harshness of his own breathing. His friend is angry, that much is evident from the speed and rapidity with which his accusations jump around, let alone his strident turn of phrase – 

“I am so disappointed in you _Bridgerton_ ,” Simon says, pressing close, pressing their bodies together, his voice dropping till it is soft and low, a parody of intimacy. “Your dedication to your land and duties was always the trait I most admired in you, and now I find it is a hollow thing after all, to be discarded as soon as more a luxurious offer presents itself, is that it?” 

“You should remember your own duty,” Anthony whispers, a whisper all he can bear to make when something he did not know was hollow is cracking open inside him. “Your duty towards your _spouse_. Unless your intention is to treat me as your father treated your mother?” 

It is a low blow, a dishonourable one. Anthony sees when it lands, when Simon steps back as though he has been slapped – a slap would have been preferable. They have settled arguments with their fists before, and been friends again after. But this – their arguments have never been about duty, or love, or _family_ before – and Anthony has used his own pain to strike a blow against his friend in the most tender place of him, the place revealed and made vulnerable under deepest confidence, and now betrayed. 

Simon steps back again, and then once more. His eyes show nothing now, not anger or indulgence either, just a perfect opaqueness that is almost alien in its detachment. Anthony can no longer feel his fingers at all as he leans back against his writing desk, clinging to it in order to remain on his feet. For a desperate moment he thinks Simon _will_ hit him – yes, let him – it would be best – when the door swings open, and his mother and Benedict stand there. His mother is paler than he has seen her since his father’s funeral, and Benedict – Benedict – 

Benedict’s shoulders are squared and his jaw firm. There is a determination in his gaze, a staunch devotion to his duty to protect his family. Anthony recognises the man before him. He is looking at the Viscount Bridgerton. 

Simon gives him a single slashing glance and turns away to face the newcomers. 

“Lady Bridgerton; Lord Bridgerton. You need not be alarmed. I wished to visit this morning only to assure you that I will conduct myself with perfect courtesy towards my betrothed, and for the duration of our marriage – the majority of which I now intend to spend anywhere but England.” Simon pauses for breath, his chest heaving and a wild look in his eyes that Anthony has never seen before. “Unfortunately, my duties require me to be somewhat unavailable for the next few weeks as well, so I shall take my leave of you until the wedding.” He does not wait for a response but storms out again, his boots ringing on the marble all the way back to the door. 

“Anthony…” his mother starts and Anthony holds up one hand and violently shakes his head. He – he cannot. 

There is nothing that anyone can do. 

“Ben,” he says, crooking a finger. “You had better come over here and read through these papers with me; they will require your signature now.” 

~ 

His brother hands him into the carriage; his mother and sisters are all watching him with anxious thoughts writ large on their faces; even Gregory has caught the feel of the moment and gazes up towards him with over-large eyes. Anthony smiles and waves until the mood has lifted a little and the carriage begins to pull away and as soon as he is reasonably sure his countenance can no longer be seen he slumps back against the seat and breathes out a sigh. 

His new husband sits opposite him and merely watches. 

Walking beside him down the aisle had been the first time Anthony had laid eyes on him in weeks and he had been so focused on keeping his own face in a grave repose most suitable to the occasion that it had scarcely occurred to him to glance to his right. Now though he has the leisure – for the rest of his life, he will have the leisure – to study his husband’s face as much as he wishes. 

Anthony’s lips twitch unbidden as he recalls all the times he has commented on that face – mocked it, abused it, teased and praised - all once Simon had grown into his features; indeed, had become one of the most handsome men of Anthony’s acquaintance. The duty of best friend-keeping-his-ego-in-check had fallen squarely to Anthony’s shoulders, and he had carried it joyfully. Simon had always laughed heartily whenever Anthony had (poorly) composed sonnets to the line of his jaw or the beauty of his eyes or the firmness of his physique, reading them aloud to the other lads in the common room, half of whom could always be relied upon to have an unrequited affection for Simon between one term and the next. Simon had always rebuked him most fiercely for his teasing – of the other students, not of himself – but the indulgence in his eyes had spoken louder than his words, and there had been so little to bring a smile to his friend’s face that Anthony had only redoubled his efforts to make him laugh. 

A sourness comes into his throat as he remembers the words Simon had rebuked him with the last time they were in one another’s presence, his reassessment of their entire friendship. It feels somewhat like what Anthony imagines taking a slash across the belly must feel like, the slow terrible dropping of one’s vital life essence, the idea that Simon could even at this moment be casting aspersions onto every motive and action of Anthony’s since they were barely into breeches…that he might be _doubting_ Anthony. 

He can not, not for the entirety of his wedding trousseau, stop himself from darting a glance at his husband’s face. But Simon is staring determinedly out of the window, his chin propped on his hand. Even with the fury still carving tension into his jaw he is by far and away the most beautiful man Anthony has ever seen, and a teasing line is on the very tip of his tongue…but no. 

Such things are not to be borne any longer. Anthony has gained a husband, and lost a friend.

The entirety of the journey is conducted in silence, Anthony losing himself in contemplation of the state of his affairs. The past few weeks he has had reason to take such pride in Benedict. His brother has unstintingly, uncomplainingly applied himself to every aspect of his new Viscount’s duties. He has always been raised to it of course – their father would never have risked the future of the Bridgerton lands on the chance that Anthony were to take a fall from his horse and procure fatal injury. Anthony can only recall a few small items he has not yet abjured to his brother’s account and those can be resolved by post as soon as they reach Cliveden. 

First however, the carriage pulls in at a handsomely-fronted inn. Anthony jumps down, shaking the stiffness of confinement from his limbs, and does not glance at his husband, or permit a single thought of the wedding night to come to enter his mind. 

Then he is escorted to his room. Alone. Whilst Simon is escorted to another. 

Anthony has barely been relieved of his jacket before the insult registers itself in his bones and he throws it on the bed with a muffled oath. A moment later he is storming down the hall. 

“Give over this nonsense Hastings,” he snaps, kicking the door open. “Seeing as you cannot get a child upon me even your usual excuses cannot stand. I refuse to be a spouse so low in estimation that you cannot manage even a single night of consummation.” 

Simon continues to remove his outer clothing – as though they are both not perfectly aware that in the absence of a valet that role should rightfully fall to Anthony – and does not even glance in his direction. Anthony feels fury tremble within him and bites his tongue to stop from saying anything further. Finally – _finally_ – Simon gives him his attention, if the briefest incline of his head can even be termed such a thing. 

“I only sought to be considerate towards my new _spouse_ , given the long and weary day of travelling –” 

“ _Simon_ ,” Anthony bites out, near vibrating with fury, and at the oath in his voice Simon jerks and glances over at him. They stand locked there together for a moment such as only Tartarus can feel, the blood hot in both their forms before Anthony scrambles for some semblance of his composure. 

And notices Simon is still frozen in the act of removing his jacket. 

“You are stuck aren’t you?” he says, and strides across the room without waiting for a response. They have done this times innumerable, helping one another dress for dinner or examination at Oxford, so he adopts the same approach as he did then, taking the jacket by the collar so Simon can lift his shoulders free – made more difficult by the tension there, as though the man has spent the entire four-hour carriage ride holding himself stiffer than a board. 

Simon twists away as soon as he is free, yanking his cravat off and tossing it on the bed. Anthony glares at him and throws the jacket after it and then they are back to staring at one another angrily. 

This time though, it is Simon who relents first. If it can be termed such. 

“I am still angry at you,” he insists, with a sharp jerk of his chin. Anthony snorts. 

“Well I am angry at everything, so at least we are beautifully matched.” 

Simon gives his own snort in response and gives a pointed glance towards the bed. 

“You are determined to crow of bedding me then?” 

“Hastings, husband or no, I will see you at dawn if you continue to deal me such insult.” Anthony scrapes out through gritted teeth. “And _yes_ , I am determined – determined that there will never be any cause to give insult to my _family_ , for my mother to think her son unwanted, or my siblings to think their brother unworthy. If we are to be wed then it will be legitimatised by this single night, and then you may never touch me again if you wish.” He does not let his voice quaver at the end, at the bleakness of the future unrolling before him, untouched and unloved for the rest of his days. 

Simon’s waistcoat joins the rest of his clothes on the bed and he sits to remove his boots. Anthony has often heard others complain of the inscrutability of his bearing, but this is the first time he has ever noticed the same himself. His friend’s – his spouse’s face is an unfamiliar text to him. 

Finally Simon sits back and meets his gaze plain. 

“Have you experience with men as bed partners before?” 

“All that I have done you know of.” Anthony retorts. A few shared hands with his fellows in Eton, and he and the Earl of Wexford’s second son once made repeated use of each other’s mouths during a stressful Michaelmas. “Your letters from your travels were as close as ever, but enough for me to assume your bed was seldom cold?” 

“Seldom.” Simon agrees shortly. He starts work on his shirt buttons. “More women than men, but I have sufficient experience for this.” 

“Have you a preference?” Anthony inquires, his curiosity genuine. The impediment to Simon’s speech during his childhood had hindered his confidence in many matters. It was not until Oxford that he ever sought out the touch of another – not long into Hilary term of that stressful year in fact, after Anthony had been extolling the raptures of Wexford’s mouth in probably an overabundance of detail, now that he has cause to recollect. 

“Men.” The response makes him jerk, so lost was he in contemplation of the past, and then he cannot help but raise an eyebrow. 

“A true preference for men, or simply one forced upon you by your determined objection to fathering an heir?” 

The shirt slides off Simon’s shoulders and at the sight of his chest – flawless walnut skin over a well-formed physique, his abdomen slender and toned – Anthony quite loses the train of what he was saying. It is with a start they he realises that Simon is undressing _so that they might go to bed together_ , precisely as he has been urging, and immediately begins to rue his insistence. Simon tosses his shirt onto the now substantial pile and turns to face him with a smirk. 

“As well-turned a phrase as always Bridgerton. You are quite right – my preference for men does have some grounding in the enjoyment I gain from spending inside them.” 

Anthony can only stare at him and Simon’s smirk widens, no doubt about to rejoice that he has finally won one of their sparring matches – 

“Do not call me that. My name is Hastings now.” 

– and just as quickly the smile falls away, to be replaced by the same firm jut of his jaw that he wore throughout their vows. 

“Very well, _Hastings_.” Simon roughly sorts through his bags by the bed and finally tosses a small vial to Anthony. “Ready yourself then, and we shall see this done.” 

“Ready _myself?_ ” Anthony asks, and immediately regrets how naïve he must now appear. He has used his fingers upon women before of course, and he supposes the process is much the same, only requiring a high degree of diligence. But what does Simon propose to do whilst he…he knows he must be gaping most unbecomingly as the bounder masquerading as his husband seats himself by the window and _opens a book_. 

“Very well,” he grits out, and begins stripping himself of his clothes as quickly as his shaking hands will allow him. He sprawls himself across Simon's bed in the hope it will earn him some acknowledgment - for naught - and then fumbles the vial so that the oil slicks itself down his wrist as well. 

Dear God in Heaven, his cheeks are burning worse than he has ever felt before. Even knowing that Simon’s gaze is fixed firmly upon his book does not stop the breaths from catching in his chest at his level of exposure. His skin feels too-rough and too-soft all at once, as though the eyes of the world are tracing themselves across it, and he cannot stop the shift of his hips upon the bed, the rasp of the sheets loud in the silent room, before he has even put finger to himself. 

When he finally does so, he cannot help his hiss and the arch of his body, involuntary responses to the slow unaccustomed press inside. He grits his teeth and pushes through the sensation, determined to take neither pleasure or pain from the experience. The latter would make for a most disagreeable carriage ride tomorrow morning, and the former would simply confirm one set of Simon’s accusations, some foolhardy notion of Anthony having had designs upon him all these years. 

“Are you sufficiently prepared?” Simon’s voice echoes round the room, and Anthony cranes his neck to see him still seated by the window, eyes still resolutely fixed upon the book in his hands. The shivery feeling that had been playing over his skin as he readied himself for his husband’s touch…it evaporates as smoke, at the thought that even with a stated preference for men Simon appears to take no pleasure or enjoyment in the proposal of taking him, or even the mere sight of his naked form. 

Anthony slides his fingers out of himself. That touch too, he had begun to enjoy, but perhaps it is merely better to have the matter done with. 

“I am ready.” 

Simon is beside the bed a moment later, looking him over, and Anthony draws his legs a little closer together despite the feeling it betrays. He cannot read his friend’s – his husband’s face at all. 

“Roll over.” 

“Roll over?” Anthony frowns up at him and Simon makes a curt gesture. 

“Onto your front. It is an easier position when one is unaccustomed to…to being in the receiving position.” 

Anthony can see the merit, even if he bristles at turning his back when his chest is already humming with uncommon vulnerability. His own length is scarcely half-hard when he presses it into the sheets and for a brief moment he wonders if Simon will even be able to summon the arousal to see this through. A moment later he feels the warmth of the other man’s form settle over him, hands adjusting his position – the grip a comfort in its familiarity at least – to bring his hips slightly back and nudge his legs apart, and then his ears catch the very faintest exhale of breaths. 

“Simon?” he tries to twist, but a firm hand on his shoulder presses him down. 

“Remain still. I would not wish to do you harm in this matter.” 

“I assume you have a sparring ring at Cliveden,” Anthony cannot help but jest, some irrepressible nerves stirring themselves in his stomach. “We can do each other harm there, it will be far more proper.” 

A huff of amusement against his neck settles his nerves better than any calming words. Anthony sinks into the bed, tries to seek enjoyment in the feel of a body beginning to press against his own, a broad hand trailing down his waist, a hard length – 

By hell and damnation, Simon is _hard_. 

Anthony cannot help the sudden buck he gives, twisting back around even as Simon grabs at him in his surprise. He can feel himself flushing but it is a distant consideration to the sudden sharp pain in his chest that for a moment leaves him entirely breathless. 

“You have been _readying_ yourself as well it seems! Am I to know who occupies my spouse’s mind to stir him to such _unyielding_ firmness – oh Jove, Simon, if you were thinking of my sister –!” 

“Of course I was not! Daphne and I were never anything more than a ruse,” Simon snaps. “If you object to any part of me –” 

“I hardly call it an objection to desire your attention where it should rightfully be –” 

“My attention is –” Simon catches himself before any further words can escape. He is a long stretch of muscle and heat against Anthony’s back now, the feeling not entirely unpleasant. But still – that damnable hardness against Anthony’s posterior is an affront to his pride, that his husband cannot so much as bear to look at him and ponders on another to rouse him to sufficient state – 

“Anthony. I assure you, from this point forwards you have the entirety of my attention. Do you – have you wish to continue? I will not object in the slightest if you wish to cease –” 

“No. We shall progress.” Anthony says determinedly, putting his head back down. In their flailing Simon has landed completely atop him, so close that now he can feel the other man’s lips shape words against the skin of his back. A prayer? A curse? Oh, Anthony will kill him, will drag him to a field at dawn if it is another’s name – 

“Anthony…” murmurs Simon, and Anthony’s breath catches in his throat. Before he can reply Simon begins to move against him, _into_ him, a firm forceful pressure that he has never known before, and he can only pant raggedly to survive it. 

Simon does not slow, does not defer even a second’s worth of movement, sliding further until Anthony is quite sure there cannot possibly be more, and then _deeper_. Finally Simon has seated himself to the fullest extent within him and Anthony can only lie there, quite undone. Simon breathes – breathes! that is all! – and he jerks to feel it, as though the space where they are connected has become irrevocably bound to every other inch of him. 

“Anthony, Anthony, I must know you are well.” Simon gasps. His forearms are either side of Anthony’s shoulders as though he is bracing himself to withstand his own waves of sensation, and Anthony can only nod, the gesture a poor indication of any sense of wellness. It is – it is not pleasure, not quite precisely, though perhaps he could understand how it might be, but more an overwhelming sense of being both utterly enveloped and enveloping. 

“Continue,” he finally hardens his voice to say. Simon only gives a ragged exhale in response and then begins his first withdrawal, though Anthony’s attention is torn between the bizarre sensation of hollowness now within him, and that of more words being pressed against his skin, not a whisper of them audible to his ears. 

It does not last long. Whoever Simon has dwelt upon, it is sufficient to bring him close to the brink, and the comfort provided by Anthony’s form is adequate for the rest. Anthony lets the feelings wash over him, learning them, beginning to taste the first stirrings of pleasure within himself – and then remembering that this is both the first and last encounter they will have of this kind, and lets himself go limp, his body go curving and pliant for his husband’s gratification, and not long after feels Simon begin to tremble against him. 

He does not spend within him. At the last moment he abruptly withdraws and Anthony feels the bed tip as Simon crumples to the side, leaving his slick across the sheets, and cannot account for the sudden disappointment he feels. He focuses upon the appearance the other man presents instead, a wholly new side of his friend now revealed. He is – he is magnificent, in this moment, thinly sheened in sweat, chest heaving and every muscle on prominent display. Even a glance lower does not disappoint – Anthony cannot help the importune thrill through his nerves at the sight of strong thighs and the jut of his hips, and more, the impressive length that hangs between them. Dear Lord have Mercy, had Anthony taken that inside of him? No matter, it will not be required of him again in future. 

His husband’s breath begins to ease and Anthony quickly averts his glance before it can be caught. He does not wish to intrude further upon Simon’s life and privacy than he already has, even spurred by royal command. The bed stirs beside him and he knows Simon is pushing himself onto one elbow to regard him. 

“You did not take pleasure from it at all?” There is an edge to his voice, that only years of friendship allows Anthony to cautiously identify as some strange note of regret. Within his own chest is a different curl of emotion – spurred from his husband’s preference for his book, his desire for another, his spending anywhere other than Anthony’s body – that is fiercely urging him to injure as he has been injured, to seize that gentlest hint of regret and pry it open. But Anthony is not unfamiliar to such urges: it is the condition of family to always face that choice between hurt or comfort. So he masters himself, and lets the tension ease from his shoulders to meet his husband’s gaze. 

“Not on this occasion. I believe the sensation was too unfamiliar to me; perhaps in the future I could see how I might find pleasure in the act.” 

Too late does he realise that his words could be construed as an urging of further encounters, something he is quite sure Simon does not desire in the slightest. But Simon’s face does not betray any reaction to his words, only a sharp nod and then the flash of skin as he rolls from the bed. Anthony goes to follow him and immediately freezes, feeling once again all those parts of him that have been newly pried open. 

A moment later then is a cool sensation against his skin and he carefully twists to see Simon with washcloth in hands, breeches already pulled high around his hips. He rests a palm on Anthony’s back to hold him in place. 

“I would be much indebted to you if you would permit me this duty,” he says, that same careful note in his voice, and Anthony nods his agreement. Even if it is only entirely proper, this small indication of care eases that newly-injured gash in his chest, nudges the edges of the wound to close a little, and he breathes deep and lets himself fall into the feel of the cloth against his skin. It has been long weeks of sadness and regret, holding himself firm so his family might take comfort from his strength, taking care never to reveal a hint of his despondency before any member of the _ton_ , lamenting above all else the dissolution of his most treasured friendship with Simon, that to have him here, now, his hand stroking softly over Anthony’s skin, it is nearly too much for his weary heart to bear… 

Exhaustion folds itself over him, much as Simon had, and is nearly as forceful in claiming him. Anthony breathes deep and lets himself ebb. There is warmth beside him, and safety in the scent surrounding him, and some tiny hint of being held in high regard in the lips that trace themselves over his skin once more, but then sleep rises up and he knows no more… 

~ 

“Hit! Good shot your Grace,” the groundskeep Algernon says, and Anthony acknowledges the tribute with a nod as he lowers his gun. 

It is hardly surprising his shooting has improved, seeing as _there is little else for him to do_. 

He spares a glance back over his shoulder. Despite how disruptive the sounds of rifle-fire must be, his husband has a stated preference for working in one of the upper floor rooms overlooking the lawn – something to do with the quality of the light – and the glimpses Anthony catches of him through the glass are sometimes the only time he will see Simon throughout a full day. 

“Another sir?” Algernon asks, his gnarled old hands already gently cupping a bird. Anthony looks at it. They have eaten pigeon three times this last week alone and are likely to tonight as well. He shakes his head and hands his gun off to a footman. 

He cannot go on like this. 

“Ready my horse,” he says, and the footmen around all twitch. No doubt they had been expecting him to return to the drawing room and throw himself down on the sofa in weary exasperation as he did yesterday, and the day before. “And remind the Duke he promised to visit Marlow with me this afternoon – inform him I shall be going ahead and will meet him before the village boundary.” 

Simon had promised him no such thing but Anthony has no intention of asking permission to go riding. And besides… 

He cannot help but nurse the soft hope in his chest that the summons will nudge the other man out of his self-imposed confinement. 

It was an old trick they would play at Oxford, to help the other escape from less than desirable engagements (or company). It was an easy enough matter to dispatch a scout or one of the junior boys, carrying a message of a previous promise – Simon’s usually sensible things like promises of studying or work due a tutor, Anthony’s as increasingly ridiculous as he could conjure – to give the other sufficient reason to politely make their leave. Whether Simon will recognise it as such an offering – whether he even remembers their old game at all – well… 

It would not be the first time in these past weeks that Anthony has had his outstretched hand declined. 

The first letter he wrote his family after their arrival, he had inquired if Simon had any messages to send, and received only terse hopes for their good health, as though Simon did not know them all intimately himself. After seeing his husband mired in his books till late into each evening he had asked if there were any aspects he might offer advice on, and been politely declined. And when, in a fit of madness, he… 

He had seen the stress in Simon’s shoulders and across his jaw, and remembered that steady aching presence within himself, and hinted to his husband that if conjugal duties should ease his burdens then he would be happy to oblige… 

Simon had shut himself away for two days after that. Anthony had eaten meals alone and felt the rattle of his silverware echo throughout the entire manse. 

It is not that Simon treats him unkindly – Anthony does not even think the other man capable such a thing – but more so he deeply, painfully, regrets the distance that is now between them, in the curtness of their exchanges and the withdrawal of their previously intimate confidences. He has spent many days now with an aching helplessness twisting his heart and disturbing his sleep. Only this morning had he looked across the empty breakfast table and found a resolution in his breast. 

It has become quite clear: As a husband, Anthony is neither wanted nor needed. His only chance of achieving a life that is not entirely without joy or comfort therefore, is to re-establish himself as a friend. 

Life appears less bleak when he is upon horseback, and he thrusts all despondency from his thoughts as he canters over the fallow fields towards town, watching startled thrushes take flight before him. This route is the longer, though by far the more refreshing, and should bring him to the intersection by the town boundary in perfect timing – if Simon were to ready himself immediately upon receiving his message that is; indeed, if Simon is even coming at all. 

He slows his mount as they come on the common roads, unwilling to reach the marker stone and see the roads bare in all direction. His beast – a handsome gelding with a determined gait and an unscrupulous mouth, a gift from Simon, senses his distraction and sidles closer to the nearest garden wall. Anthony jerks and swears as it helps itself to the sweet yarrow flowers in the hedgerow. 

“Oh, you cursed thing, must you outrage our neighbours before I have even met them?” 

“It would take far more than that to outrage me, I assure you,” an amused voice chimes in. Anthony gets his mount – still smugly chewing – under control and glances over to the gate set in the hedge. A tall man stands there, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms quite at odds with the collar round his neck. Ah. Quite the worst neighbour to hear Anthony’s cursing then. 

“Forgive me – forgive _him_ ,” Anthony says, trying not to colour. “Might I presume my mount has availed himself of the hedgerow of the village vicar? Please accept my humblest apologies sir.” 

The vicar’s eyes crinkle, revealing deep-set laugh lines in his dark skin. 

“No apologies necessary at all; such a beautifully high-spirited beast cannot be blamed for his fettle. And you are quite right – if you will permit me the liberty of introducing myself, I am Henry Thorpe, resident at Thistledown vicarage and owner of this sadly much-depleted hedgerow.” 

“Lord’s mercy,” Anthony mutters under his breath, evidently not as discreetly as he had imagined from how the good vicar’s smile broadens. “I am Anthony…Anthony Basset.” The words feel strange on his tongue and a moment’s reflection is enough to give him the realisation that it is the first time he has said such aloud. 

“A relation of the Duke’s I presume?” Mr Thorpe says and Anthony knows not whether to breathe out relief or irritation that news of the Duke’s wedding has clearly not spread further than Cliveden’s grounds. “Are you long in the county Mr Basset?” 

It is almost unforgiveable not to correct him, and yet Anthony does not. 

“I have only spent a few weeks here to date, staying primarily at Cliveden,” he says instead. “I had hoped to visit Marlow this morning.” 

“Ah, you have chosen a provident day for it. There is quaint little custom of the townsfolk occurring today, a ceremony they do to welcome summer – quite heathen of course, but I am indulgent,” the vicar winks at him and Anthony cannot help his smile in return. There are similar traditions in the towns nearest Bridgerton and he and Benedict have many joyful memories of participating, permission granted by their father so long as their schoolwork was done. 

“I am fond of such customs myself, I –” 

“Anthony!” 

He twists at the sound of his name and is quite taken aback by the sight of Simon riding towards him, elegantly seated atop a chestnut mare. His cravat is a little rumpled at the collar, as though he dressed for riding in a hurry, and the sight lifts Anthony’s spirits more than any other gesture could. 

Simon’s face had been set in stern lines but there is some softening there as Anthony smiles in welcome – only for it to harden once again as he espies the vicar. Perhaps they have not yet become acquainted? He draws his mount to a stop some metres away, politely deferring to Anthony’s prior conversation. 

“Thank you for the suggestion for the visit,” Anthony says, inclining his head towards Mr Thorpe. “And for your understanding in regards to your hedge.” 

“Not at all, I hope you will visit Marlow again during your stay Mr Basset –” 

Simon clears his throat loudly and Anthony clenches his fists upon the reins as he struggles to control the flush upon his cheeks. It falls to him to rectify the situation, seeing as it comes entirely at his own making. 

“My sincerest apologies for being remiss in my greeting earlier Mr Thorpe – please might I now introduce my husband, the Duke of Hastings.” 

“Husband – ah,” the vicar says, the faintest note of regret in his voice and Anthony nearly goes quite virulently scarlet with embarrassment at how this must look. “The apology is all mine, your Grace, for not recognising you instantly. And your Grace,” he nods at Simon, who barely tips his head in acknowledgement, his gaze fixed firmly on Anthony. 

Anthony is still struggling to control his blush even when they are out of sight of the vicarage. The silence rapidly becomes unbearable. 

“Simon. The fault was mine. I introduced myself poorly, and did not correct him immediately –” 

“Frankly I am impressed he called you Basset at all.” Simon interrupts. “I would have been not at all surprised to learn you still give your name as Bridgerton.” 

That is too far. Anthony’s mount is sprightly and full of yarrow blooms, and all too delighted to trot forward and then swing to block Simon’s path. Anthony meets his eyes squarely. 

“ _Simon_. What cause have I given you to doubt me so? For all peace, we have been friends for above fifteen years. I know this affair has not been prompted by either of our desires, but surely it can be more than stilted silences and unbidden insults for the rest of our lives! You are my _friend_ , Simon. You know there is no other I hold in higher regard. I would hope I would not have fallen so far in yours.” 

Simon is staring fixedly at his own reins, held tight in leather gloves, and Anthony feels regret like a tremor run through him. He has gone too far, trespassed overlong on his friend’s good graces – 

Like the fall of a body onto an eiderdown coverlet all the tension gusts out of Simon in one great sigh. When he finally lifts his head Anthony nearly swoons like a maiden at the old familiar glint in his friend’s eye. 

“I…yes. You will forgive me my recent intransigence I hope Anthony?” 

“Why, have you been intransigent? I haven’t noticed.” Anthony jests, barely knowing his own words at the sudden good cheer like sunshine in his chest, nudging his mount back into place. They are so close now he can feel the brush of Simon’s leg against his. “Come – I have caught wind the village has a summer celebration today, and the Duke’s presence can only increase the festivities.” 

“You merely wish for the presence of _ale_.” Simon gripes back, a little awkwardly, as though he has half-forgotten how to converse without anger. Anthony fervently offers up hopes that their hostilities have come to a possible swift end – he would have preferred a wedding day less tense with enmity, and a wedding morning where he had not woken up alone, let alone the weeks of silence since – but if such was necessary to restore them to détente then so be it. 

He does not press the issue as they ride into town, and finds he has been blessed a second time – the townspeople have gone to great lengths to create an air of joyful festivities, and the sudden arrival of their Duke only adds to the revelry. They leave their mounts with the blacksmith – with a warning that Anthony’s will attempt to sample anything in reach – and stroll around the square admiring the produce and craftsmanship on display. 

“Did you visit Marlow much in your youth?” he murmurs close to Simon’s ear as they stop to admire a stall of woven baskets. The nearest one has a large russet-furred cat in it and Anthony holds his hand out absent-mindedly. “Its inhabitants seem much taken with you, and I cannot fathom if it is the rosy glow of reunion or if they are simply bedazzled by your beauty.” 

“Anthony you _wretch_ ,” Simon mutters, his lips twitching in a smile Anthony has not seen in so long as to feel like forever. Whatever further rebuke his husband wishes to say next is forestalled as the alderman hurries over to offer greetings. Anthony lets the man draw his husband away, not wishing to overstep when he and Simon are so tentatively re-aligning themselves. 

“Her name is Tabitha,” a small voice says, and Anthony looks down to see a small child, surely no more than Hyacinth’s age though considerably smaller, her hair done up atop her head with a sweet blue bow. Anthony crouches to her side and holds out a hand. 

“She looks a very fine creature,” he says, and then dearly hopes he was correct in assuming she referred to the cat. He has had his fill of blunders this day. The girlchild smiles and puts her hand into his, nodding. 

“Yes. She was a very good mouser, but then the tom that lives in the inn got her and since she had her kits all she does is sleep all the time.” 

“I feel that is the least a lady deserves after her confinement.” Anthony says. “And what is your name, if I may have the pleasure of the introduction?” 

“Agatha.” 

“Ah, well, my name is Anthony, we both start with the letter A, do we not?” 

“All my sisters have names that start with A.” Agatha says. Anthony does not need to ask whether these sisters are older or younger: it is perfectly clear from her tone. “Mother says it is ladylike, Father says Mother has respirations above her station.” 

Anthony coughs a little. “Aspirations?” 

“Oh yes, that is it,” she continues as though she were not blithely revealing her family’s confidences to him. Almost certainly younger than Hyacinth then. The russet cat has stretched itself free of its woven confines and come out to pad around Anthony’s shins. A moment later it bounds back into the basket, and then begins a steady relocation of kittens from the interior into his and Agatha’s arms. Anthony judges them perhaps nine-weeks old, beginning to be inquisitive about the world. Their sire must have had a darker coat for two of the ones in his rapidly filling hands are dark as coffee-water, nosing against his thumb with determination. 

“Agatha! Why are you bothering his Grace?!” A buxom woman with a babe on her back – no doubt another girlchild whose name begins with an A – hurries over and collects daughter and kittens both, her cheeks aflame. 

“I assure you, she was no trouble at all,” says Anthony quickly, dusting off his hands. It had taken him a moment to remember she referred to him. 

“You’re too kind your Grace,” the lady curtsies a little awkwardly. Another two small beribboned heads are peering round her. “And, um, congratulations on your marriage, your Grace.” 

“Ah. Yes, thank you, too kind.” Anthony says, inclining his head. 

“Who did you marry?” Agatha asks. She has put one of the kittens into the pocket of her apron and its little head pokes out curiously. “Aren’t you the Duke?” 

“I am the Duke-Consort,” Anthony explains, and then points to the other side of the square. “You see that tall fine-looking gentleman there? He is my husband, the Duke of Hastings.” 

“Oh,” Agatha says, her eyes going very wide as she watches Simon solemnly inspecting a draught horse, and Anthony gleefully makes note of the story to tell his husband – his _friend_ – later, about how Simon’s face is threatening to enchant half the village. 

“Oh, your Grace…” her mother says again hesitantly, and Anthony straightens up. He has never heard that tone himself, but his mother and Daphne and Benedict have all described it to him – it is the tone used to appeal to the spouse or family member of the local Lord, when an informal application would be considered improper. What a local mayor cannot perhaps admit to an Earl, his wife can confess to the Countess when she comes to deliver baskets, and so such matters are settled to the pride of all. 

“How may I help?” he asks, as kindly as he can make his voice. He has no talent for this side of things, but the tenants of the Hastings lands are his responsibility now also, and he will do them justice. 

“Oh, your Grace, it’s such a little thing, it ain’t proper of me to mention it…” 

“Not at all, I welcome any topic.” Anthony says firmly. “I am so new to this county of course, I would be delighted to learn about anything of interest.” 

Agatha’s mother absently drops another kitten into her own apron. The russet cat seems quite approving of all of this. 

“Well, we were all so grateful to his Grace for the tithes relief he granted for this year, coming after…” she coughs slightly, no doubt hesitating over referring to the previous steward, but Anthony barely takes note. Simon has granted tithes relief? It is a most sensible option, and one the Hastings coffers can withstand – his father, whilst an unredeemable cur of the highest order, was nonetheless a most prudent and fiscally sensible man, laying up a significant stock of Bonds – but such a motion would still be considered radical in many quarters, and most generous indeed. 

A moment’s surprise is all he feels: of course Simon chose such a course. It is exactly within character for the man. 

“Is there anything else that would be of support?” he asks, and Agatha’s mother hesitates only a moment longer before setting her jaw. 

“My Grace, please do encourage your husband to visit his lands more often. Weeks he was, living at Cliveden, though we never saw sight nor sound, and then he went back to the city to wed yourself, blessings on you both, but since then…why this is the first time any of us have clapped eyes on him! That steward, he weren’t working alone you know, there’s others that there…well they weren’t outright crooks, if you’ll excuse my speaking bluntly your Grace, but they was all too happy to turn a blind eye when it suited them. And there’s nothing to do with men like that but feel their master’s eye close upon them, and like the rest of us will be ‘eard if we make supplicants of ourselves.” 

Anthony lets a breath out slowly. This is a strong message to take back to his spouse, but an important one, and one he will carry gladly. Agatha’s mother has gone pale and then red, as though worrying she has said too much, but it is an easy enough matter to set her at ease with a few questions about the town, about the further pageantry planned for the day, and then politely excuse himself when Simon’s steps bring him round the square again. 

“How are you faring?” Anthony murmurs, leaning close to his husband’s side. “Forgive me, when I lured you from your desk it was not with the intent that you should have to endure conversation with the head of every household in the town; if your voice wearies let me know at once.” He knows the enduring snare Simon’s stammer still holds over his voice, and his reluctance to have it exposed in so public a forum, where first impressions will hold and linger. 

“No,” Simon says after a moment. “I will always be glad to be lured by you. And for the most part they merely wish me to listen and nod and comment gravely on how well a piece of livestock looks.” 

“Hmmmm, well, if it is any consolation I believe that is what most of the townwives are saying about their Duke as well,” Anthony teases, and Simon hisses and grabs him by the wrist. He moves to shield him from view with his body as he has done a thousand times before, as though putting his own face directly in Anthony’s line of vision is likely to _cease_ the teasing? 

After they have tussled in full view of their entire village for a moment Anthony finally lets himself go limp in acknowledgement of his husband’s quite unnecessary level of strength. Simon tugs both their jackets straight and glares at him and Anthony merely responds with a beaming smile the likes of which will irritate his friend beyond anything. 

“Do you wish to stay longer?” Simon says, after rolling his eyes. He gestures to the trestles being set up outside the inn. “I recall the fondness with which you spoke of such events at Bridgerton, when you were with your family.” There is a note to his voice which, once again, Anthony cannot quite place. He surveys the square with a thoughtful brow. 

“Let us stay for the judging of the rams, and then the first sampling of last year’s barrels –” 

“Ah, but of course we must stay for the _ale_.” 

“The _ale_ represents the bounty of last year’s harvests carrying over to this. It brings good luck for the year ahead.” Anthony sniffs. “And we will only stay for the _sampling_ , and then return to Cliveden for dinner. That should be sufficient Ducal presence to please all concerned, and means you will not have to ride double with me because you are too drunk to stay on your horse. Again.” 

“We do not speak of that night,” Simon hisses at him, and Anthony simply leans against his husband’s shoulder and looks up through his lashes, playing the innocently besotted spouse and enjoying that Simon cannot dunk him in the fishpond as he so clearly wishes to do without ruining the illusion beyond measure. Indeed he can hear the tangle of emotion in his friend’s voice when he hisses again, low and deep. “ _Wretch._ ” 

“Your wretch, my Grace.” Anthony simpers, and then cannot hold it any longer and pulls away with a snort of laughter. Simon huffs out his own amusement and follows. 

The rest of the afternoon near makes up for the past few weeks. Anthony scarcely manages to hold in his own delight, watching Simon solemnly crown the winning ram, a sturdy-footed beast with two great curving horns, with a coronet of daisies and sweet pea – and then is gifted one of his own by the alderman’s blushing maiden daughter. Even with the crowd and the festivities sweeping on around them they are never far from each other’s side, and at every instance of some amusement or note their eyes meet and Anthony knows his friend’s mind as well as he always has. 

By the gods, he _missed_ him. 

The novelty of their Duke has worn away, and the strength of the ale has begun to kick in, by the point at which they make their goodbyes. Simon’s flower coronet has transferred itself by some act of great cunning to Anthony’s head, and the Duke is laden down with a large woven basket that he carries close as they collect their mounts and return to Cliveden, a long lingering twilight more than sufficient to guide them home. 

Simon refuses to relinquish his basket even to a footman as they are greeted and Anthony eyes it curiously as they both settle themselves in one of the drawing rooms. Then he remembers his conversation with Agatha’s mother and the duty he owes. 

“How did you find it?” he asks. Simon has begun to roll his shoulders within his coat and without a word Anthony steps close behind him to assist. Simon returns the gesture, his large hands warm and firm as he strips the offending material from his form. They fortunately have no guests to observe the breach of etiquette that will be dining in shirtsleeves. 

Simon sprawls his length out on the sofa and directs a thoughtful look at the frescoed ceiling. 

“It was well. I cannot begrudge them their curiosity – the last Duke visited but a handful of times in two decades.” 

“It would be well for you to thoroughly establish your presence in all the county’s towns and village.” Anthony suggests, trying to adopt a light tone. He does not know his rights here, if Simon will permit his suggestions. He is the Consort role, married into this family – the rules are quite beyond anything he ever expected for himself… 

“Anthony,” Simon says, without even pause for breath. “Say it plain. I assure you, there is no counsel you could give me I would not hear.” 

“The scars of your steward’s conduct run deep.” Anthony says, the words leaping free like a hare before a hound. This is how their conversation should go. “The presence of their Duke – the knowledge that he is _here_ , strong and observant and a champion of the weak – will go some way towards their healing.” 

Simon snorts and runs his hands over his face. 

“How is it I spend the day discussing stock lines and crop rotation, and you have my tenants pouring their hearts into your willing ear?” Anthony notes with some relief that he does not sound bitter, more – interested? Amused? Even…admiring? 

“It is no gift of mine,” he objects. “Such is the way – the Duke’s spouse is often seen as a more receptive vessel to such matters. And I do most fervently believe that such words were not intended in any way as a criticism, but in deep and honest wish to welcome you further. Your decision to waive the tithes this year has done great healing already…that was well done of you, Simon.” 

“I am glad you approve,” Simon murmurs, almost more to their ceiling than Anthony himself. “Very glad. And speaking of gifts.” With one quick motion – is the man entirely composed of muscle? – he rolls to a seated position and pulls his treasured basket towards him. 

“Did the townsfolk bestow something on your beyond your coronet?” Anthony asks, putting his hand to the flowers still entangled in his curls. “Why, we should definitely visit so much as every hamlet if we are to receive gifts –” 

“It is not for me. I procured it for you.” Simon says shortly, shifting so that he rests on one knee on the floor before him. Anthony can only blink as a small warm object is deposited in his hands, and then blink against as the coffee-brown kitten uncurls itself and yawns up at him sleepily. 

Anthony scarcely has the words to pick through all that his heart has gone through these past months, only that he has felt pried open and numbed and furious and deeply grieving, all at different points and sometimes the same. This, though – 

Oh… 

_Oh._

He looks at the man kneeling before him, the man who his own mind has never quite reconciled between _husband_ and _friend_ , and understands that it is because he has never truly wished to draw such distinction between the two. Simon is…Simon is both, and so much more, and Anthony wishes suddenly that there might be even _more_ between them. Simon is the most handsome man of his entire acquaintance, honest and forthright and generous and true, and even having been forced into this marriage his care and regard for Anthony has triumphed over his anger, to manifest in this moment, his leather-clad hands cradling Anthony’s and the kitten within them both. 

And Anthony loves him for it. Quite utterly. Quite completely. 

And quite forlornly. 

He is luckier than he or his mother ever dared believe possible – he is married to the one he loves. And now… 

"Thank you Simon," he murmurs, as firmly as his softening heart will allow. "It is a most caring gift." His husband only nods shortly and pulls away, the wamrth left by his hands fading instantly. Anthony watches him go, and understands the truth of his marriage. 

And now... 

Now he must live out of the rest of his days only inches away from the one he most loves and adores, and know that he will never have such feelings returned.

~ 

“We should invite Mr Thorpe to dine with us one evening,” Anthony says thoughtfully, flicking through the society pages of the newspaper with one hand whilst dangling a piece of string for Tommy Tildrum with the other. 

“I see no need,” comes the calm response from the other end of the table, and Anthony flicks a look at his companion, obscured by his own papers. 

“No need to form an acquaintance with our nearest representative of the church? If only to take the measure of the man surely.” 

“I have conversed with him previously,” Simon says, taking a long sip of his chocolate. “I have a strong sense of his measure already.” 

Anthony only just manages to prevent from rolling his eyes, and hisses when Tommy bites for his fingers whilst his attention is elsewhere. When his hand is finally free from kitten aggression (some part of his kippers may have been sacrificed for the achievement) he adopts a different tone. 

“Are you so intent on keeping me all to yourself husband?” he asks, letting the memory of Francesca’s coy tone guide him. Of all his sisters she had been most proficient at beguiling additional biscuits from the housecook at Bridgerton. “Am I not to be permitted any other society at all?” 

Simon puts down his papers and glares at him. Anthony beams. It is a difficult thing, tracing the lines of this new path between them. Sometimes his teasing brings back all the joy of their long friendship, and other times…it reminds his husband he is wed to a man he does not care for, and Anthony will be alone again. 

“We are not well-equipped for receiving guests.” Simon tries next. Anthony chews on a mouthful of his remaining kippers and ponders. Is that a gentle rebuke to Anthony’s duties as Duke-Consort? Or simply a returning parry? The papers rustle again as Simon evidently thinks the same and amends in a softer tone. “Neither of us has the time or inclination to take on the duties of the house.” 

Anthony sends up a most fervent prayer of gratitude that that is true – in the days since they visited Marlow Simon has involved him substantially more in the running of the estate, to the point that Anthony has had no time to practice his shooting at all. Both he and the Cliveden pigeon establishment are overjoyed. 

“Perhaps we ought to consider a dual-partnership arrangement,” he muses. “Oh yes, look, there are a number of female pairs advertising here…mostly for the procurement of children and governessing, but some for house management…they could live in the west wing quite comfortably.” 

“Swap.” Simon demands from the other end of the table, presumably before Anthony can go so far as to begin arranging interviews – oh, this lady states she plays the pianoforte to great accomplishment, that would be most pleasant, it does get a little quiet of the evenings – and a footman comes forward to exchange their respective halves of the paper. Anthony hands Tommy Tildrum off to a maid so he might spread the business papers out across the table. 

“Simon!” 

“Yes?” A moment later Simon is at his side, peering down at the papers. “What is it?” 

“Did you not take note of this section?” Anthony says, tapping at the page before him. “The bill Lord Ashdown is proposing?” He knows Simon’s father was a great speaker in the Lords but Simon’s interest in politics is diminished to say the least. 

“I did not even know Parliament was still open,” Simon says, neatly demonstrating Anthony’s point. 

“It has been extended given the recent news from Spain,” Anthony says, rising. He does not say that he’s sure Simon would have been notified as a sitting Lord – as Anthony would have been, before his marriage. “Which I’m sure prompted this late submission as well.” He is so engrossed in reading that he does not notice Simon is following him as he heads with brisk steps towards the study. He surely has – yes, there! He grasps his slim black journal out the desk drawer and flicks it open. 

“What is this?” Simon asks, leaning over his back. “What…why do you know the name of Lord Ashdown’s mistress? And...and Lord Dewbury's debts to his tailor?” 

“I find it tiresome on occasion to keep such details in my head,” Anthony murmurs. The article is somewhat scant in detail but he is familiar enough with the vagaries of the press to understand what is left unsaid. “It is much more convenient to jot them down.” 

“But why do you _know_ such details?” 

“Why would I not?” Anthony is equally confused. It is imperative to be fully aware of the true characters of those one must engage with, both his parents taught him that. It is perhaps the only thing he and Lady Whistledown agree upon. He knows Simon would not be able to name the extent of Lord Wallace’s debts, or the number of bastards the Earl of Hixture has – but that is surely only because Simon has been travelling for years. 

Which leads him back to the article. 

“Simon, do you not feel that this bill proposed by Lord Ashdown is most unsatisfactory?” 

“I do not know, I do not customarily read the news on parliamentary affairs,” Simon shrugs. He is still frowning at Anthony’s little black book. “What does it regard?” 

“It _regards_ all gentlemen who wish to travel for extended periods,” Anthony stresses heavily. “It is couched in all the standard patriotic twaddle usually employed by Wellesley’s lot: robustness of the nation’s defence, the highest priority given to the integrity of our superior strategies, the usual rot…” 

“And this affects me how…?” Simon drawls, tipping himself back in the chair besides Anthony’s desk. Anthony gives him a sharp look. 

“Oh, not at all. Unless the next time you go abroad you have no objection to being stripped of your Dukedom and your estates.” 

The legs of Simon’s chair thump loudly onto the floor. 

“Upon what grounds?!” 

Anthony rubs his forehead with one hand and suppresses a sigh. “On the grounds I just described!” 

“The integrity of strategies? Anthony –” 

“They will call you a _spy_ Simon,” Anthony says. “They will say Britain must protect the intelligence that flows beyond her shores due to the state of the world. Come man! This business with the colonies grows hotter by the day. Spain is a mess, Bonaparte seethes after his winter defeat, Austria dips back and forth like a virgin maid with two suitors –” 

“Surely a man’s desire to travel the world does not automatically make him a spy. Let alone warrant such a punishment.” Simon says derisively. Anthony slumps back in his seat. 

“No, of course not, that is only the stated justification. Beneath this lie a dozen others, all of equal value. I am sure there will be a clause stating travel will only be permitted under royal decree – thus the Prince Regent strengthens his authority over his nobles. Forfeited estates will be awarded as the Queen sees fit, strengthening hers. It will allow Wellesley to snub Canning after the furore of the Catholic Relief Bill – I do not think the two have spoken since. It will force a number of Lords to return to England to protect their seats, which the government will take full advantage of…these are just a few of the reasons that spring to mind.” Anthony waves a hand in the air and finally glances over at his husband. 

Simon is staring at him as though he has grown another head. Anthony almost raises a hand to his own neck to be sure it is not the case. 

“Do not look at me so Simon. It is hardly my fault you scarcely attended any of our Eton lectures on parliamentary process.” 

“It was hardly my fault that I did not attend! Was it not you who lured me out of every other one to go fishing in Fellow’s Pond!” 

Anthony cannot quite recall whether that is the case or not, but it sounds highly likely so he deems it better not to respond. He flaps the paper in Simon’s direction instead. 

“Well then, my dear Duke of Hastings, do you find this bill satisfactory or not?” 

“Obviously I find it quite unsatisfactory.” Simon says, rubbing his hands over his face. “I suppose I can only hope the Queen is in good cheer enough with me to grant me whatever approval I require – ” 

“So you do not mean to fight it then?” Anthony asks with a frown. Simon’s own forehead is equally as creased. 

“Fight it? Whatever do you mean? Surely once it is debated in the Lords it will then pass to the Commons and be approved into law?” 

“It must be approved in the Lords before it passes to the lower Chamber.” Anthony says slowly. He knew Simon’s father obstinately refused to induct his son into any of his duties, but with Simon’s speedy mastering of his estate duties Anthony had assumed he had already undergone a similar proceeding for his role in the Lords. “And Simon, you are a member of the House of Lords. A Ducal member. Your title holds significant influence.” Simon continues to stare at him and Anthony can only spread his hands wide. “Simon. If you gather sufficient opposition to contest this bill then it _will not be approved_.” 

“But surely the government would most vehemently object?” 

“Yes,” Anthony says. “So?” 

Simon blinks. Anthony watches with strange fascination as the concept begins to permeate into his husband’s consciousness. Oh, it is even better then when they were at Oxford, watching Simon slowly realise the degree to which his expression and form were to be admired. 

Then Simon swallows slowly. 

“Would…would I be required to address Parliament?” 

Ah. 

“Perhaps. But perhaps not. As long as your name was prominently attached to the objection then perhaps an ally with a more strident nature could be prevailed upon to make any speeches required. But we certainly should not embark upon this until we are sure we can muster sufficient support – it will damage your influence to have your first foray into politics a failure. We must…hmmmm, the Marquess of Devonshire has a cousin in Vienna whom he visits regularly, no doubt we can count on his support. I should also write to George Westwood, he has connections to the jewel merchants, if we can muster support amongst the guilds it shall greatly aid our cause. Benedict’s vote we can count on of course – here, where is my seal, I will write to him at once.” He scrawls a rapid note to his brother, confident Benedict will have already taken note of the bill and its implications and be able to decipher Anthony’s intentions. “I am certain between the two of you it will be entirely possible to…drat it! Where on earth is my seal?” 

“It is directly in front of you.” Simon says, that note in his voice again, and Anthony blinks down at the Hastings seal before him. Of course. That is his seal now. 

Simon does not speak again, watching Anthony flip through his book and scrawl letters feverishly – he will compose himself more graciously before sending of course, but he has long found it beneficial to capture his early thoughts. To Lord Knowle, who has a fondness for Ruster Ausbruch vintages, he will speak of how impossible it will be to reliably import such delights if travel is curtailed. To Viscount Kaddock, he will remind him how Anthony’s great-grandfather defended the Viscount’s great-uncle’s rights to Lowbrook Forest. To the Duke of Ashworth…well, he will ask after the health of his mother and his favourite boarhound, and determinedly not mention the substantial amount the gentleman still owes Anthony from when they last sat at the card table together. 

“I can feel your gaze upon me,” Anthony says, when he finally can no longer bear the silence. Simon only makes some small shift beside him. 

“I assure you, you cannot.” And then, as though it is entirely commonplace to offer such a bizarre statement, continues immediately. “I will confess, Anthony, to being both amused and bemused.” 

“To what do you owe either emotion?” Anthony asks, swearing as he threatens to dip his cuffs in ink. 

“The amusement, as I recall how throughout our boyhood you always knew everyone else’s business. It seems you have retained the trait, and improved the motive.” 

“Scandal and lies,” Anthony mutters back. “Phillip Hasgrove always knew more than me at Oxford, he had a dalliance with one of the porters. It’s amazing the information you can get if you are willing to go to your knees for it. If I recollect correctly I was most envious at the time.” 

“You are such a wretch,” Simon says fondly. “And a _nosy_ one –” 

“Fie, Simon! Curious, inquisitive, enquiring perhaps –” 

“And as for the bemusement, I cannot figure out _why_ the sudden mad urging to have this bill repealed…?” 

Anthony blinks and looks up at his husband. “I thought…Simon you have made your wishes to continue your travels quite clear? Surely you also wish to have a home to return to?” 

“Perhaps it would depend upon one’s definition of home.” Simon snaps, the mood souring as quick as a thunderstorm curdling milk. Anthony can only suck in a sharp breath as his husband stands and departs the room post-haste, and then clench the quill in his hand till the shaft fair threatens to snap in two. 

He cannot fathom it, cannot piece together the moves to this dance that he and Simon are locked in. At times it seems they are dancing different steps, and at others that they are listening to entirely different quartets altogether! 

He swallows hard as he looks down upon the mess of papers before him. He has had two weeks now, of existing in such a miserable state as he does, loving and being unloved. Despite he and Simon having reached a détente of sorts in regards to preserving their friendship, Simon has never repealed the words he uttered that very first time, of his intentions to return to his travels, and rebuffs all Anthony’s efforts to hint that establishing Anthony in the county first – with regular guests, dual-partner companions, even _friends_ – might go some way to preventing his husband from falling into abject loneliness when Simon disappears again. 

Anthony does not taunt himself with thoughts that he will ever not be lonely without Simon – the previous years of separation taught him that even with only friendship between them he still felt the absence of the other man like a steady ache between his ribs. To be bereft of the man he now knows he loves… 

Anthony does not look forward to the future bleakness of his days. But he cannot allow himself to descend into despair. Nor will he sabotage his husband. If Simon wishes to travel, if Simon will be _happier_ travelling than he would with Anthony…then Anthony will see it so. 

He picks up the letter to Benedict and seals it with quick decisive movements. The others will need to be reworded, but this, to his brother – and no doubt to be read by his mother, by Eloise, by Colin and perhaps Francesca too – this can go as it is, and they will forgive of him the tear drop in the corner, he is sure. 

~ 

The next few days pass agreeably enough, as by silent contract both Simon and he agree not to speak of his political efforts. Anthony spends the mornings looking over the house logs – if Simon is so set against having a female pair in, then Anthony will have to learn _something_ – and they seize the fine weather of the afternoons to visit one farm or another, looking over the fields and stock, or simply riding over the crests of the dales. Anthony has finally had cause to cap his own teasing, growing exasperated by how Simon always maintains his perfect deportment however the strength of the winds, whilst Anthony returns from every ride with tousled-hair and pinkened-cheeks, to the point that Simon inevitably stares at him in disbelief. After dinner Simon reads whilst Anthony works on his political correspondence, twisting a turn of phrase as required to lean or pressure its reader, implying the Duke’s intentions without exposing him in any way, calling in debts and hinting at bargains to be made. Simon’s scepticism is clear but there are already a dozen titles rallying to their cause, and likely more than will declare themselves once victory appears more assured. 

Then Simon receives a letter of his own. 

He was evidently at his sparring practice when a footman brought him his correspondence and has scarcely bothered to tie his shirt before storming through the corridors to Anthony’s side. Anthony does not even notice the letter thrust before his face at first, too dazed by the glimpse of his husband’s bare chest, still sheened and heaving, and is immediately transported to the single night they ever shared marital duties, Simon’s gasps of pleasure, the strength of his form, the merciless pressure inside Anthony sparking hints of pleasure he could not name… 

“Anthony!” 

“Ah…yes?” 

Simon glares at him. 

“I will grant you the courtesy of assuming that perhaps this is also news to you…? I would be _most_ affronted to find that my husband had issued such an invitation without first alerting me.” 

Anthony takes the letter and does not even need to read a single word before he has recognised the handwriting. 

Daphne. 

_My most dear brother Hastings,_ it reads. _It is too long since we have had the pleasure of delighting in one another’s company. As we are all a most tender and affectionate family I know you will rejoice to hear that my dear husband and I and one or two of my siblings will be visiting Berkshire in the immediate near future, and of course would not think to visit the county without paying our most dutiful respects to yourself and my brother Anthony. Look for our carriage with eager hearts from the –_

Anthony does not bother to read further. If the effusiveness were not clue enough, the little ticks on the tail of every ‘y’ are sufficient indication of his sister’s mood. 

Daphne is most irate. And she is coming to Cliveden. 

“My apologies Simon, truly I did not know they would be near. I shall write at once and say I hope to see them in London for…” he trails off. He does not know when next he shall see his siblings. So little of their engagement could be considered traditional, he bore no surprise at all when Simon seemed pleased to forego the traditional return-home visit of the bride or consort. Anthony had kept a kernel of hope in his heart that once Simon were a’travelling, and the estates in good order, then perhaps it would not be entirely amiss for him to stay in Hastings House whilst his family were in London, or perhaps even visit Bridgerton… 

“According to the poststamp upon the envelope I do not think a letter would reach them in time.” Simon says. His tone has calmed but there is a veritable maelstrom of some dark emotion in his eyes that Anthony can hardly meet when he glances up. “And as I sense some slight piqueness to your sister’s tone, I doubt she intends to stay anywhere other than Cliveden itself.” 

“You are the Lord of Cliveden,” Anthony can only say quietly. “I shall encourage her to take rooms in Marlow if that would be your preference. You are master of everything here, Simon.” 

“I do not wish to be its _master_ ,” Simon says, the words as sharp as cut glass, and then he has turned on his heel and departed once more. Anthony can hear him issuing orders to Mrs Coulson to prepare rooms for their guests and supposes the matter settled, though to what purpose or end he cannot fathom. For so much of the time he and Simon exist in that glorious sunshine companionship of their youth – and then, like this, some moment that escapes his understanding will cast a chasm between them. 

But still – if chasm there is to be at this time, then he will gladly accept the balm of some one or perhaps two of his siblings come to visit. 

He realises his estimation of Daphne’s strength of feeling might not have been wholly accurate the very next morning, standing upon the front steps of Cliveden watching a carriage appear from the woods. It may, in fact, just possibly, have been a wild underestimation, if he wished to be more accurate. 

A second carriage appears, and then a third. 

“Anthonyyyyyyy!” Hyacinth shrieks, her head popping out of the window of the second coach, immediately losing her bonnet to the wind. She is quickly yanked back inside, just in time for Anthony to swear he sees the third carriage rock on its wheels, a small body and beaming face strongly resembling Gregory’s appearing at the window before he is no doubt ordered back to his seat. 

“Good God…” he hears Simon whisper weakly, but for the first time in weeks Anthony has a reckless laughter bubbling up in his chest and he cannot help but descend the steps, first sedately and then throwing decorum to the wind, jumping down them two, three at a time and catching Francesca in his arms as she throws herself out of the first carriage with a happy cry. 

They are all here, every one of them. Daphne and her Prince follow Francesca and he has scarcely time to embrace both his sisters and shake his new brother’s hand before Benedict and Eloise and Hyacinth are climbing down from the second carriage, and then Colin is jumping off the third, Gregory flung across his shoulders like a sack of flour and turning, a hand outstretched, to help an elegant figure descend… 

“Mother…” Anthony breathes, and Benedict squeezes his shoulder and foregoes an embrace so that Anthony can walk to their mother’s side. His eyes scan her form – is she smaller? There are lines on the soft skin of her face that were not there before, and he thinks perhaps there is a touch more grey to her hair. Oh but, her smile, and her arms reaching to him…Anthony has folded himself inside them before he has chance to think. 

“Oh, Anthony, my boy, my darling boy,” his mother murmurs into his hair, and Anthony tucks his face into his neck and breathes in deep. 

There is such joyful chaos around him for the next little while, escorting his family inside and accepting their gracious compliments on Cliveden’s beauty and arranging all their rooms, that it takes him some time to realise that Simon has disappeared. Benedict catches him looking around and lays a firm hand on his forearm. 

“He greeted mother most graciously and all our sisters far more charmingly than he has any right too,” he says in a low voice. “Then apologised for his most pressing work obligations and said he looked forward to our company at dinner.” 

“He is charming, is he not?” Anthony says, forced joviality in his voice. He returns his brother’s clasp. “Far more than me – it seems I have not yet greeted you properly, Lord Bridgerton.” 

“Oh, Anthony, do not. You in all the world I cannot bear to hear those words from.” Benedict replies, half rueful humour and half deepest sincerity. Anthony has always admired his brother for the strength of his emotions that he shares so easily. Would that he or his husband had half such a skill! 

“How come you all to be here?” Anthony asks, leading the way to the furthest drawing room. It is where the good brandy is kept, and it shall give them an extra five minutes before Hyacinth and Gregory find them. “Daphne’s letter suggested perhaps one or two would accompany her.” 

“Yes, I believe she and Francesca composed it together. With much the same attention that Odysseus gave to the construction of his wooden horse.” Benedict says drily, and Anthony groans. 

“There was no need to mount such a crusade, I am perfectly fine. Cliveden is not the walls of Troy and I am most certainly not Helen!” 

“Of course not, Helen was remarkably fair,” Eloise says cheerfully, wandering in and looking with interest at the glasses Anthony has just poured. Anthony sighs and pours her a quarter-measure. “And we saw your husband off in less than ten minutes, let alone ten years.” 

“I do not need my husband scared away, my marriage is perfectly amicable,” Anthony protests, and then bites back the oaths that linger on his tongue when Daphne and her Prince follow on Eloise’s heels. “Your Highness, might I interest you in a Solera Gran Reserve – most difficult to acquire in these current times.” 

“Ah, how delightful.” Prince Friedrich says, accepting the glass. He looks none the worse for wear for surviving two days travel with Anthony’s family – truly, Daphne has made a splendid choice. Daphne declines a glass, her gaze fixed with firm intensity upon Anthony’s face. He takes a large swallow of his own drink for fortification and then turns to meet it. 

“Sister. You look exquisite.” 

“And you appear just as your letters implied.” Daphne says. Anthony allows himself to be guided over to the sofas and seated opposite her. The Prince is the very soul of discretion, looking over the pictures at the other end of the room with great interest, whilst Anthony sits amongst his siblings for the first time in months. 

“Anthony –” Daphne says, and then stops. Anthony is appalled to see her lower lip tremble and a tear threaten her eye. He hurries to kneel at her side. 

“Daphne, what ails you –” 

“Oh, Anthony, I am sorry I was not here!” Daphne cries, quietening herself swiftly even whilst her lovely face reveals her great turmoil. “You should have written…Frederick and I would have returned in an instant – he could have talked with his Aunt, persuaded her –” 

“Sister.” Anthony takes both her hands in his and squeezes them with all the love he possesses. Benedict and Eloise have moved close on either side. “Sister, the Queen’s mind was fixed, there was nothing to be done. And in truth – Simon is my oldest and dearest friend, you know this. To be his companion in this way is no hardship at all.” 

“But he did not let you come home!” Daphne sniffles, and there is no answer Anthony can make to that. In truth, he so feared hearing Simon’s refusal that he had never asked if they would be visiting Bridgerton – this was in the days immediately after their marriage, when they were most at odds. Now, perhaps, he could persuade him… 

“In the future there will be many opportunities to visit,” he promises. “Simon…Simon has made it clear he wishes to continue his travelling, and so long as my duties as Duke-Consort are fulfilled I am sure it will be possible…” 

“He will not take you with him?” Eloise asks in some surprise, and Anthony pauses again. Another question he has not been able to muster his bravery to pursue. 

Anthony begins to realise that perhaps his fear of losing Simon’s friendship has encouraged fearfulness in too many other areas as well. In the spirit of their new détente, this too they will have to begin again. 

“I do not believe that would be his preference,” he only says in response, and then quickly seeks to change the subject, smiling at Benedict. “Which is why I shall require all your help in mustering a political campaign before the Lord's vote two weeks from now, I was thinking –” 

“Anthony,” Daphne says, her lower lip set in a pout that always rendered their father quite ineffectual. “I’m afraid I must insist on prying further into your domestic affairs. Unless you wish for _mother_ to conduct her own enquiries?” 

Oh, Hell Fire. 

“Pray, sister, continue,” Anthony grits out, and Daphne simply tilts her head to one side. 

“Anthony…do you _care_ for him?” she asks, and it is all Anthony can do not to laugh out loud. 

“With all my heart sister, I swear it,” he replies, in utter sincerity, and then rises to his feet. “Come. You have left poor Colin and Francesca alone with the younger ones for far too long, it is hardly fair of you.” 

“It is quite fair, Benedict and I had Hyacinth for an entire carriage ride.” Eloise says firmly, and Daphne huffs out a breath that says quite clearly her curiosity has not been satisfied as she would wish, but she rises obediently. The Prince comes to escort her along and Anthony politely gestures them out, before throwing all courtesy to the wind and ducking through a separate door to dash up the servant’s staircase and out into the corridor where he knows his husband will be hiding. 

“I am not hiding.” Simon says the moment he steps through the door. 

“Are you not? How disappointing, I hoped to hide with you.” Anthony replies, closing it firmly behind him. Simon looks at him over the rim of his glass – Anthony had noticed the Chateau de Lacquy missing from the drawing room – and the dullness in his eyes is enough to still Anthony’s tongue. “Simon? Are you well? I can only offer a thousand apologies for my entire family descending upon you like this unannounced –” 

Simon snorts. “It seems I know your family better than you do – I had no doubt at all that we would be hosting the entire Bridgerton clan. Why else do you think Mrs Coulson readied enough rooms?” 

Anthony pauses, realising he is entirely correct. Simon continues with a wave of his hand, very nearly splashing Armagnac across the desk. He is slightly intoxicated already, Anthony realises, and noon has scarcely passed. 

“Have they passed judgement on me already? What is my verdict – am I Hades, stealing Persephone, casting your family’s world into perpetual winter?” 

“What? No! Simon, do not speak such,” Anthony says. Simon simply bestows upon him a look and Anthony, who cannot lie to the one he loves, rubs his hand over his forehead. “You are quite mistaken…I am cast as Helen, not Persephone. My sister has another thousand relatives waiting in the wings.” 

Simon throws his head back and laughs, though not without a tone of some bitterness underlying it. Anthony swiftly paces around the desk and pulls him to his feet. A basin of cold water and a change of clothes will set his husband to rights. 

“Simon, come.” 

“Hmmmm, and where do you take me?” Simon asks, sliding his arm around Anthony’s neck as he tries to stir the other man’s taller form into steps. “What does my Helen want of me?” 

“Bring a basin of cold water – _ice water_ – to the Duke’s room.” Anthony instructs the footman conveniently outside the door. Even more convenient are the empty corridors between them and Simon’s bedroom – either Mrs Coulson is the very soul of privacy, or Gregory and Hyacinth are wrecking such havoc as needs the entire staff to contain. He has scarcely got them through the door when Simon’s hand grasps the curls just above his neck and shakes him, gently, but in such a manner as to send a shiver of fire down Anthony’s spine. 

“I did not expect my Helen to bring me to my bedchamber.” 

“Is this your revenge for so many years of teasing?” Anthony asks, stripping his jacket off him. “Helen is a truly terrible nickname for me. Yourself perhaps, I could quite understand, but it could only be mockery to compare me to an unparalleled beauty.” 

“You truly have no idea do you?” Simon asks. His arm has gone around Anthony’s waist instead and Anthony has no choice but to look up, to be caught and ensnared in his husband’s warm brown eyes. “ _Look_ at you, Anthony.” 

“I am looking at _you_.” Anthony says in response, knowing his voice hovers between jest and good faith. “The most handsome Duke in all of England.” 

“Handsome, what is handsome?” Simon snorts. His eyes are still glazed but Anthony cannot look away. His hand comes up to grasp Anthony’s chin, so shocking that Anthony feels his knees go weak. Simon has barely touched him in weeks, certainly not skin to skin since…since their wedding night… “How can handsome compare to this?” he turns Anthony’s face from side to side and Anthony feels the blood rush to his face. Where is that ice water? He has need of it this exact moment! 

“Simon, you make no sense at all –” 

Simon dips his head and kisses him. Anthony’s whole body shivers under the strength of his arm, the firm press of his tongue. He can scarcely tell which way is up as his husband plunders and conquers his mouth entirely. 

His husband, drunk on brandy before noon. 

“Ah, Simon, wait…” 

“Bewitching.” Simon murmurs, ignoring his words, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at him. “Was that not Helen’s gift? To bewitch a Prince so completely he ignored all previous duties and vows and stole her away, in defiance of the army that appeared at his doors –” 

“My family is no army Simon.” Anthony says, narrowing his eyes as much as he can when his heart is still thumping in his chest so hard he is surprised it cannot be heard in Marlow. He desperately wishes for another kiss, but not – not in some drunken jest, some extended offense – 

“Are they not here to rescue you? To take you back? To take you from me?” Simon asks, some coarseness entering his voice. “Do you not call them family even now, above your own husband?” 

Anthony blinks at him, utterly confused. “What…Simon, what else could I possibly call them? They are my family, and always will be!” 

“Yes, you have made that most abundantly clear.” Simon replies, and then his arm and his touch are gone and Anthony’s entire form feels cold from the loss of his hands. Simon turns away to strip off his shirt and a moment later a footman knocks at the door, a basin clasped in his hands and an uncertain look upon his face. “Thank you Anthony, that is all I require of you at this present moment.” 

Anthony presses his own fist against his chest, against the frantic fast-beating thing that is trapped there. His composure lasts him out the door and down the corridor, into the safety and loneliness of his own bedchamber, his empty bed, his silent life, and then he sinks down with his back pressed against the door and muffles his face in his hands. 

He does not know how long he sits there. Long enough to hear his husband’s boots in the corridor, and for them to fade away. Long enough for his muscles to tighten and protest when he tries to move, until it seems almost easier to simply stay where he is and let the time pass him by, let the shadows drift across the floor. 

He finally comes to himself with the distant sound of voices and laughter, and muscle memory alone helps him rise to his feet and walk to the window. There, on the corner of the lawn – Benedict chasing after Gregory, his sisters’ laughter following them both. 

He had not thought anything could hurt more than being unwanted as a husband. But that was quite presumptious of him, as his current pain will attest. It is clear now that Simon does not even consider Anthony _family_. Never mind the rings on their fingers, he does not even value the years of brotherhood between them. 

But that does not mean Anthony should give way to despair. He still has a family, one that will always welcome him back to its heart, even if he cannot permit himself to go. By Simon’s side he has sworn himself, by Simon’s side his heart has pledged him, and from that spot he will never leave. 

But in the meantime he will go down to the lawn, and put his family’s minds completely at ease. He would not have them shed a single tear for him. That is most assuredly what he should do. 

He does not move at all. 

~ 

Prince Friedrich Wilhelm Ludwig – or Fritz, to his mother and many cousins, Frederick, in the English manner, to his aunt, and _my darling Prince_ to his softest and most beautiful wife Daphne – had believed himself accustomed to large families. 

And then, there was the family of Bridgerton. 

“Oh but darling, it is very easy, why, we are all named in order of the alphabet,” his sweet Daphne has said many times, perhaps forgetting for a moment that Friedrich’s first languages are German, Russian and French, and that English does not come to him quite so readily. 

Friedrich would rather charge straight into battle than hurt his wife’s gentle soul in any way, which is why he also does not wish to tell her that the problem is not of the names. When alone, he can recite them all most precisely. The problem is that…well, apart from his dear Daphne herself, they all look too much alike. Her young sisters yes, and her older brothers, indeed. 

Well, perhaps Friedrich does see a little something more in the oldest brother. He has the strongest affection for women – their curves, their scent, their elegant charms! – but he would not find a man of great vigour displeasing to see also. Anthony, the oldest, he can comprehend, yes…the brightness of his dark eyes, his most becoming countenance, the firmness of his form…it is quite understandable that his husband the Duke guards him most diligently. 

And thus again they come to the family of Bridgerton, and himself and the Duke. 

Friedrich’s beloved sits upon the terrace beside her mother. All the others are upon the lawn, laughing quite merrily. Friedrich awaits with joyous anticipation the day his own children will play alongside their Bridgerton cousins – it is a family of most ardent care and warmth – but fears that day may not come soon. 

His mother had been quite clear in her teachings: wives must be cared for most diligently, their health and happiness prioritised above all else. The business of making children is equal danger to that of the most perilous soldiery! If Friedrich wishes for children, Daphne’s happiness must come above all, and right now, ah, his beloved is most definitely not happy. 

Friedrich glances at the Duke standing behind him, dressed in a new waistcoat and jacket from this morning. He is also a most handsome man, though without his husband’s dimpled charm, but in the Prince’s eyes this moment – he looks like a man waiting to be shot. 

Of his husband, the Prince’s wife’s eldest brother, there has been no sign at all in some time. 

“My Duke of Hastings, may I say something to you?” Friedrich asks. The air is fresh and the sun is bright. It is as good a time as any. 

The Duke lifts an eyebrow in response. These English. Even their eyebrows are sarcastic. 

“But of course your Highness. I am at your command.” 

“I wished to say – I am most thankful that you did not marry my wife!” Friedrich bursts into cheerful laughter at the thought and the Duke even chuckles along – more merry than most Englishmen then. 

“I am glad also your Highness. Daphne is as dear to me as any sister, and she seems most content.” 

“Ah! But she is your sister yes? And so I am your brother, and you shall call me Frederick as all Englishmen do, and I shall call you…?” 

The Duke seems amused, or Friedrich wishes to believe that is what his eyebrows indicate. 

“Please, call me Simon as it pleases your Highness –” 

“ _Frederick._ ” 

“Frederick.” Hah! The Duke does have a true smile, even if it passes as swift as a cuckoo clock. “Our brotherly connection is a distant one, you do me much compliment.” 

“Distant? Pah. Not in such a family as this!” Frederick looks over the cheerful chaos on the lawn and beams. It is magnificent! “It is such a welcome as I could never have dreamt for! As I am Daphne’s husband, so I am brother to her siblings, son to her mother…it is a very great feeling, is it not?” 

Simon the Duke seems confused – his eyebrows have gone down and furrowed close together. 

“I do not think I have been extended the same courtesy –” 

“Ahhhhh, well, you have been on the British tradition of honeymoon, yes?” Friedrich nudges him with an elbow and winks. “The family talk of you as a brother already. The little one, Gregory, he wishes for you to teach him to box. Francesca worries that you will have no music or company here without sisters to entertain you. Ah, the other brother…Colin! He has intentions to ask your advice on travelling.” He heaves out a deep sigh. “It is so very heartening.” 

There is a very long pause. Has he misspoken? He cannot imagine how, but the British do take offense to anything they can. On the lawn Benedict is preparing shuttles for the little ones, oh, he has not played shuttles since he was a boy! Perhaps first he needs to check on the Duke however. His eyebrows are simply miserable now. 

“Your Highness…Frederick…might I ask…” 

“Of course brother Simon!” 

“Do you know why Anthony married me?” 

Oof. That is a most personal question. Fortunately his beloved Daphne wishes to read aloud all letters from her family, so that Friedrich might come to know them as she does. 

“Ahhhhh, well,” he coughs delicately. “My Aunt, she is, how do you say, _formidable¸_ yes? But Anthony, he is your stalwart brother-in-arms, as I understand? Of course he would volunteer to stay by your side – and he is most pleasing to look upon, is he not?” 

The Duke Simon heaves in a breath. Ah, Friedrich knows that look upon a man’s face! That is one who feels lust in his veins at the very thought of his beloved. Friedrich knows that Simon understands such things – did he not arrange for Friedrich and his beautiful wife to have a room separate from the rest of the family? He is most grateful for the courtesy. 

“He hoped that as you were already family of one sense, it could be possible to grow into another, although I know it caused him great… _sorge?_ You know this word? It is…to care very much so that the heart is heavy. He regretted the anger you felt at having your choice taken from you.” He coughs again. He is most devoted to his Aunt, but her methods…ach. “And my wife…mentions that perhaps there is a recent argument? That you intend to travel without him and he is most distressed? I am sure it is just a misunderstanding!” 

“Anthony thinks of me as family?” Simon asks, his eyebrows going up, up, up, and Friedrich is sure his must also be doing the same. Such a question as this! Do these Englishmen not talk to one another? 

“Frederick! Frederick!” comes the call from the lawn, and Frederick waves an arm. Ah, his wife’s smile at the sight – Friedrich adores playing with his little brothers and sisters, knowing that she also sees their future children when he does so. How many they will have! 

He claps the Duke Simon on the shoulder, who is looking back towards his very large house with eyebrows the Prince is tired of examining. Good healthy exercise in the company of children is most heartening for the soul. 

“Excuse me your Highness, I must -” 

“Come and join me in playing! Yes, I agree, come, come…” he encourages the other man to join him with a strong hand on his shoulder. The many Bridgertons look most pleased as Simon steps onto the lawn – he will see for himself how he is welcomed! 

Daphne’s smile is most lovely, and the Prince’s heart is lifted. If he must solve all her brother’s marital problems to bring her joy, he shall certainly do so. 

~ 

In the odd fifteen years they have been friends, Anthony has become acquainted with every vagary of Simon’s temper that exists. He has seen him defiant, standing with fists bloodied before the senior boys who bullied him. He has seen him desolate, at his father’s absence for their graduation. He has seen him ecstatic, sardonic, morose and vicious. 

He has never seen him like this, as nervous as a fieldmouse and watching every interaction between Anthony and his family as though he is studying a mathematics textbook. Anthony half-wishes he would disappear on his travels tout suite rather than delay any further – a hole in his heart could not feel any worse than Simon’s stare boring holes in the side of his head! 

“What’s his name Anthony?” Francesca asks, the kitten mewling as though he has never been fed a day in his life in her lap. The tiny liar. It had dinner with the rest of them only an hour before. 

“Tommy Tildrum,” Anthony says, underlining another phrase in the bill finally published in the paper. Benedict is sat beside him with ink-stained fingers, the whole family clustered round. Once such an image would have weakened his knees in its perfection, but now he feels the sham of his marriage like a blight upon the picturesque scene. 

“Ah, what a perfect name,” his mother says, his sisters taking it in turns to coo over the spoilt little beastling. 

“How did you come by him brother?” Eloise asks, trying to attract the kitten with a ribbon she has undoubtedly yanked from her dress. “I remember mother would never let you have one at home.” 

“Darling! Mrs Wilson is so fiercely allergic, it would have been quite cruel.” 

“Simon got him for me,” Anthony says, unthinking, as he frowns down at the proposed legislature regarding forfeiture of entail. The unnatural silence causes him to glance up a moment later, to see Simon looking – well, half scared from his wits, and half…Anthony cannot name it. Surely he cannot be so thrown just from Anthony’s family smiling at him for a gift of a kitten? 

“What a thoughtful gift,” Daphne says. The Prince beams beside her. 

“It was nothing,” Simon says, and fifteen years is quite sufficient to allow Anthony to hear the strain in his voice. His husband is dressed remarkably well today, so much that Anthony is determined not to look up from these papers again else he will end up staring at him like a calf-eyed idiot. 

Tommy Tildrum neatly jumps from Francesca’s lap and pads over to the table, making the most appalling racket until Anthony sighs and scoops him up. The nosy terror is finally satisfied when he can rub his nose against Anthony’s chin and then join him and Benedict in peering at the papers. 

“Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever seen!” Francesca giggles. 

“Simon you look positively starstruck,” Daphne says – Anthony immediately disregards the nonsense. He is most grateful when the Prince calls out. 

“Brother Anthony, how fares your campaign?” 

“It is not _my_ campaign,” Anthony starts, but Benedict is already seizing the chance to throw down his pen and engage in conversation instead. 

“Remarkably well! Anthony is a genius at such things, he has persuaded George and Gregory Whitling to cast their votes behind us as well.” 

“Has Wellesley still not caught wind of your intentions?” his mother asks, carefully plying her sewing. Anthony stretches back in his chair. Perhaps it is time to break. 

“By this point it matters not, the momentum is sufficient that even if we were to lose – which I doubt – it would still deal a decisive-enough blow to encourage the Commons to vote it down as well. Either way, Simon and Colin’s travels are safe.” 

“I have no title or lands to lose, thank the heavens,” Colin says from where he is sprawled on the floor playing marbles with Gregory. “Unless…Ben! You are strictly forbidden from marrying a Marquis or an Earl or somesuch!” 

“You…you are sure you have won? Simply from some letters and persuasion?” Simon says, but he is too unaccustomed to making his voice heard amidst chaos. Anthony shoots him a look of apology as his family cheerfully rambles on. 

“I have no such plans I assure you,” Benedict is saying, balling up paper and throwing it at his brother. “And you! Try to avoid wandering too long through France and being arrested as a spy.” 

“Oh, Colin, you should not go to France, I should not be able to bear it.” 

“Then where am I to go mother? Most of Europe dances on a knife-edge.” Colin says with a snort. Anthony sees the distress on his mother’s face as she beseeches the room. 

“I am sure we can think of somewhere perfectly splendid for you to go that does not risk any chance of being shot at or killed! Simon – Simon, my dear, where would you recommend?” 

“Yes,” Daphne says archly, suddenly returning to the conversation. “Simon, where do you intend to go next on your travels? I hear the Mediterranean is a most favourable spot for _couples and families_.” 

Anthony cannot stop himself from staring askance at his closest sister, unable to fathom why she is being so pointed in her remarks. Sadly his younger siblings have not a whit of discretion to them. 

“Oh, oh, Simon, if it is for families than can we come!” Hyacinth asks, skipping over to him. “I wish to visit Athens!” 

“I wish to visit Crete!” Gregory yells from the floor. “Where they kept the minotaur!” 

“The only one who is half-bull around here is you.” Hyacinth responds, stamping her foot, and the scene promptly dissolves into bedlam. Anthony’s attention is caught however, by the look on his husband’s face, that same mixture of fear and – something. Even as Benedict takes the youngest two in hand Anthony is still trying to puzzle it out, until Simon glances at him and then – 

Leaves. Simply mumbles a graceless apology and quits the room immediately. It takes a long moment to be registered with the other occupants and Anthony cannot describe the feeling of bewildered mortification singing through him – but even that is almost overpowered by the urge to run and check on his husband’s well-being. The mixture leaves his head thrumming with conflicting desires. 

Then Daphne speaks. 

“My. Simon seemed quite overwhelmed by the collective noun, did he not?” 

And Anthony cannot make heads nor tails of such a statement, but then: 

“Oh,” says Anthony’s mother. 

“ _Oh,”_ says Francesca. 

“Ohhhhhhh,” says Eloise. 

“Ah,” says Benedict, by which point Anthony has surrendered his grip on a reasonable response entirely. 

“Have my beloved siblings anything further to add?” he enquired, unable to keep the irritation from his tone. “Or is this serious of vocalizations the best I can expect on the matter. Mother – mother? I did not think to see you _amused_ at my situation.” 

“Oh, Anthony, oh, do not be offended, my dear one.” His mother clutches her sewing to her, a smile of astonishing relief spreading across her face. “It is all quite clear now – oh, I am quite restored…” 

“Anthony,” Daphne says, and Anthony turns to his only other wedded sibling in the vain hope she might have some more substantial comments to offer. Her Prince is smiling at him gently as she says, “you would agree, brother, that sometimes a…an outside perspective, can see things that would otherwise be unclear to those on the inside?” 

“Yes, yes, hurry and tell me what stunning realisation you have all drawn and proceed to dangle above me like meat for a hawk,” he leans back in his chair and rubs at his forehead. “Perish the thought that my family should instead give me comfort in this moment.” 

“I’m confused.” Hyacinth complains, and pouts when Benedict hushes her. 

“Pray tell, dearest Anthony – to whom do you refer by _family?_ ” Eloise asks in a manner fair inappropriate to her age. 

“Well my main part has abandoned me, so you all shall have to do.” Anthony snits back, promptly regretting it when they all exchange significant looks – with one another, not with him. 

“Brother…not that I would wish to pry into your exchanges with your husband at all,” Benedict says. “But have you…er…that is…” 

“Does Simon _know_ that you consider him family?” Daphne asks briskly. She and the Prince exchange a meaningful look. Anthony drops his arm fully to make his incredulity known. 

“Does my husband know that I consider him family? Unless he has forgotten all memory of the last few months and believes he dreamt our wedding ceremony, I am reasonably sure of it yes sister. How he views me is an entirely separate concern.” 

“But have you _said_ it?” Eloise jumps in. Francesca is nodding most fervently by her side – in fact all the faces before him contain some degree of expectation. Anthony can scarce believe this is a conversation he is embroiled within. 

“Say it? Why the devil – begging your pardon mother – why would I need to _say_ it?” 

“Perhaps you might try,” Benedict suggests. 

“Just in case,” Francesca adds. 

“For us.” Daphne says, and smiles sweetly in a manner that he knows is quite patently false. Anthony looks at all the faces arrayed before him and heaves himself of the sofa with a sigh. 

“Very well, if it will bring you all comfort, I will go and inform my husband of the most base fact of our existence.” 

“Wonderful! And then you do not need worry about us at all, please spend as long _talking_ as the two of you shall need and we shall quite entertain ourselves, won’t we?” Daphne asks the room, to more fervent nods, and Anthony rolls his eyes again and goes to locate his husband. 

Footmen silently point him in the direction of his husband’s bedroom – is there nothing in their lives that Mrs Coulson is not prescient of? – and then politely absent themselves as Anthony knocks on the door. At his husband’s brisk command he enters, and promptly sighs. 

“Simon, if you will not accept my help then at least call for Jeffries. This is far too handsome a coat on you to ruin.” 

“I detest the fashions in this country.” Simon says, letting Anthony assist him with the burdensome item. “In the Americas they have a far less reserved mode of clothing themselves.” His face is turned away from Anthony, and the next words come almost softly. “I believe it would suit you most admirably, if you cared to travel there and experience it.” 

Anthony’s head is already sore, his emotions bruised deep against the bone, but hope – that traitorous flutter – needs only the tiniest spark to flick to life in his chest. 

“Is that – could that be considered an invitation, Simon?” 

“If you wished it to be.” Simon says shortly, stepping away to yank off his cravat, still with his back to Anthony. Anthony stares at it, at the broad shoulders and the trim waist, pleasing to the eye but also to the soul, in knowing what weights they have carried and are yet unbowed, of the strong heart and moral soul housed within that chest. He thinks, too, of what his family said to him downstairs, and of his new resolve to overcome his fearfulness. 

“I would like that more than anything Simon.” 

Simon’s breath is the only sound in the room. He is pacing around Anthony, who stands stock still, as though he is not aware of his own movements. Finally he pauses a little closer than before, his fingers going to the buttons of his waistcoat. Anthony knocks them away and does it himself, his head bowed to the task. 

“I would also not be opposed to the Mediterranean.” Simon says, in a voice that makes Anthony believe that there is a flicker of hope in his heart also. “If…if your family wished to accompany us, I would also not be opposed to that.” 

“ _Our_ family, Simon.” Anthony says, sliding the last button free. The waistcoat falls to the ground and Simon is in nothing but shirt and breeches. “As long as that is pleasing to you.” 

“Do you consider me family?” Simon asks, and Anthony cannot believe how he could have ever thought otherwise. His head jerks up in his indignation. 

“What? Simon – of course. For most of my life. And, and now, in marriage…I know you do not consider me in the light of a husband, but you are still the one I treasure most dearly, and we are bound together. You will always be my husband, my family, my…” he stops himself before he can utter any sentiments that would be displeasing to the other man, Simon’s gaze boring into him once again. “My family adore you, and consider you as such also. Has their behaviour or mine ever given you cause to doubt it?!” 

“I would not know,” Simon says quietly. “I do not know what family looks like, or how it behaves. I only know that I want you so entirely that even the thought that you love your own kin more than me is unbearable. Is that…is that not monstrous of me, Anthony?” His voice cracks on the final word and he moves as though to lurch away but Anthony flings himself forward and grabs ahold, wrapping his arms around his husband as though he means to never let him go. 

“Simon, Simon, I am sorry if I ever made you doubt it,” the guilt is a terrible wrenching thing in his chest. What would Simon know of family affection, raised in his echoing manner with servants that could only show their care in the most diplomatic of ways, Lady Danbury mixing love and expectation in equal portion, his father…well, there are no words to do his cruelty justice. Is not Anthony the monster, for never truly considering his friend’s needs? 

Then Simon’s words reform themselves in his brain. 

“Simon…Simon, you… _want_ me?” 

Simon gives a harsh laugh. He has made no effort to escape the circle of Anthony’s arms, only twisted his head away to hide his face. He rests it now against Anthony’s hair. 

“Yes, Anthony, may the devil take me. How could I not? But I swear to you, I will never touch you in a single way you do not desire, or make you feel the slightest pressure –” 

“How could you think I do not desire it?” the words spring from Anthony’s mouth before he has chance to consider them. Simon’s eyes snap open as he stares down at him. 

“You found no pleasure in our previous coupling.” 

Anthony feels his face flush, and then again at the truly bizarre sound Simon makes. 

“I said I was unused to the sensation! And that I might find pleasure in it in the future!” 

“You have never indicated you wished to try again! You pulled away from my kiss only yesterday!” 

“You were drunk!” 

“I was not drunk!” 

“You were in your cups at least.” Anthony insists. “As you were at Lady Marion’s birthday celebration.” 

“Well whose fault is that?” hisses Simon, and now it is Anthony’s turn to look away. His cheeks are still hot and he startles when suddenly Simon’s lips are against the nearest one, trailing soft and with great intent over his skin. Simon jerks himself rigid again instantly. 

“Anthony…you must not say these things to appease me. I know you did not wish for this marriage, you did not seek it, even if I have come to understand why you stood forward yourself instead of proposing a sibling –” 

“Not at all, I think you and Eloise would have been most happy together,” Anthony says sweetly. Without his realising Simon’s arm has slid around his own waist and now it squeezes him disapprovingly. “And Simon, it is not appeasement. Honestly,” he knows he blushes again, much to his embarrassment. “How could you think otherwise, when I tell you at every opportunity that you are the most handsome man in all of England?” 

“I might call your sister the fairest, that does not mean at all that I wish to take her to bed.” Simon retorts. Anthony kicks him lightly on the shin at the reminder that he is still mad at Simon and Daphne excluding him from their ruse. For the briefest moment he had thought Simon had replaced him as his favourite Bridgerton. 

“What must I say to make you realise that I am happy in this marriage?” he asks. “No, I did not seek it, and I will not deny that the…that it was a most unexpected turn which caused some little resentment for me initially. But Simon – most of all I grieved for the grief I caused _you_. That you should – that you should have been given cause to doubt our friendship. That you cast aspersions on my motives. That you…that you wished to travel far away and abandon me all alone.” His voice cracks and Simon’s arm around him is suddenly unbearably tight, Simon holding him as close as it is possible to be. 

“Anthony, Anthony, forgive me. You…you cannot imagine the emotions that wrung through me when I learnt of my fate. I was adrift in a maelstrom, and I behaved most barbarically towards you.” He gives that short laugh again, full of a harshness that hurts Anthony to hear. Simon’s hand has risen to cup the back of his head, the touch enough to make him tremble. “Ah, Anthony, I have treated you badly in ways I was not even aware of – do you know, how much your family shows your affection in touch? You are all constantly clasping one another close. And do you know how much you have brightened, just in the day they have been present, with every gentle caress or familiar embrace? And here was me, denying you even the touch of a hand through my own selfishness.” 

Anthony has never thought of such a thing before, but he knows without doubt it to be true. Even Simon’s simple hold on him now feels like there is warmth pouring into his bones. He had no notion of how much he craved it. 

“What…why…” he does not know how he means to finish the utterance, but Simon is already forging ahead. 

“I could not spare a thought for your feelings when I was drowning in my own. My greatest desire had been dropped in my lap – but it was not real, merely the most tormenting façade imaginable. I was in agony. The thought, the mere thought, of living a life in parody of that I most wished for…Anthony, my love, I did not think I could survive it. Flight was my only recourse.” Simon’s voice has dropped low and deep, sorrow thick in every word. “You cannot understand it, to have you and yet not have you. But I have learnt that it is a misery I am willing to bear, if I can bring you joy in exchange, if the burden of this knowledge of my true feelings is not too distressing to you.” 

“To love, and not be loved in return.” Anthony says slowly, staring at him, at that most beloved face, the dark eyes and curving lips and the firm line of his jaw. 

“Exactly. Torment.” Simon says, with a sigh that speaks both of sorrow and the relief of being unburdened. Anthony suspects his own emotions are similarly tumultuous, but for the life of him he could not identify a single one of them in this instance. 

“Yes. I know it well,” he says, and then when Simon jerks and stares at him: “I…I think perhaps my teasing has concealed a different motive all these years Simon. All I ever wished for was to gaze upon you as much as I wished, and it is no different now. I would…I would have fought every bill the Lords ever proposed, if I thought it would bring you happiness even at the cost of my own. I could do no less for the man I loved.” 

“ _Anthony_.” Simon whispers, his hand still cradling him, and Anthony feels himself sinking into the embrace, his own arms tightening even more around his _husband_. 

“Simon, Simon,” he says urgently, feeling the pull of their bodies like an irrevocable tide. “Simon, to be precise, as I have recently been informed that there is great benefit to stating things out loud and most clearly – I, Anthony Basset, took you as husband willingly and with great joy, and should seek to build a life with you full of vast quantities of ale and kittens both, and also to go to bed with you exactly as I have been dreaming of since our wedding night,” Simon’s gaze has sharpened to a knife-edge viciousness, the look he gives to opponents in the ring. It thrills every drop of Anthony’s blood and he already knows himself to be stirring. “And also: I love you greatly.” 

“Anthony,” Simon says, his hands stripping away Anthony’s clothes as he speaks. “I, Simon Basset, took you as husband whole-heartedly and devotedly, and will agree to moderate consumption of ale, no more than three kittens at once, and to ravish you as often as I possibly can for the remainder of our lives.” His hands are firm and possessive on Anthony’s body, the forcefulness of his touch making up for all the weeks of absence. “And also: I love you greatly.” 

The words leave Anthony swooning and breathless, which his husband takes ruthless advantage of and soon Anthony is entirely bare beneath his hungry gaze. The look of fervent gratitude that passes across Simon’s face when he sees proof of Anthony’s shared desire is near humbling, and Anthony can only grab his husband and kiss him fiercely, before shoving him away. 

“ _Husband_. Take off your clothes. No!” He holds out a hand as Simon’s grip goes to the bottom of his shirt. “Never mind: I wish to do it.” 

“Anthony,” Simon groans, desperation in his voice to match the evident strain within his breeches. “How can you tease me so?” 

“Me? Tease you? It is well that I believe you desire me at all considering our wedding night, when you _read a book whilst I readied myself for you!_ ” Anthony scolds, nearly ripping off the buttons on his husband’s shirt in his own desperation. Simon does not appear to notice. “You could barely even look at me that night!” 

“Anthony, I nearly spent just from the _sight_ of you,” Simon groans. “If you had any notion of the strength of my control that night…I thought you would be disgusted by the desire I had hidden from you for so many years – ah!” The gasp spills from his lips as Anthony pushes his breeches down, and then has to pause and stare as Simon is revealed in all his glory. For a moment he forgets to regard Simon’s words as he tentatively wraps a hand around his husband’s girth. 

“Lord have mercy Simon – did you really fit this inside me?” 

“ _Yes_.” Simon groans again, grabbing Anthony’s wrist. “And I would have it so again.” 

“Wait,” Anthony says quickly. “I want…” 

“What, tell me, what do you want?” Simon asks between kisses, which does not help remotely with ordering Anthony’s thoughts. “What do you want, anything, tell me.” 

Anthony fiercely tells himself not to blush and promptly fails. 

“I wish to have my mouth on you.” 

Simon blinks at him, and then puts a hand to himself. Anthony winces a little at the firmness of his squeeze, but it seems to help his husband regain some control. His voice is deeper than Anthony has ever heard it when he leans in for another kiss. 

“As you wish.” 

Anthony pushes him back towards the bed, Simon going willingly till he is sat on the side with his legs spread and Anthony goes to his knees, leaning close. He has always adored this act, feeling his partner above and around him, the smell of them, knowing himself desired beyond reason – 

“Anthony, you do not need to go too far –” Simon is saying, and Anthony gives him a look that comment well deserves. 

“I am perfectly accomplished Simon, if a little out of practice with the male form.” 

“When – when was your last male lover?” Simon asks, as thought the words are being battered out of him by Will Mondrich’s blows. Anthony rubs his cheek against his length and enjoys the way the muscles in his thighs tense most gloriously. 

“Mmmmm, not since Oxford, and the dalliance I had with…what was his name?” 

“Joseph Brightingham, the Earl of Wexford’s second son.” Simon says, stroking a hand through Anthony’s hair as he nestles closer in between Simon’s legs and opens his mouth. “Has he recovered from the duelling wound he procured in Grenada – oh heaven have mercy Anthony, _do not stop_ …” 

Anthony immediately stops. 

“How did you know it was a duel? His brother told me under strictest confidence, apparently Joseph quite refuses to name the matter contested.” 

“Anthony, _please_.” Simon begs, and Anthony shrugs the matter to one side and slides his mouth back down, feeling the girth of Simon’s cock stretching his lips wide. Simon’s hand in his hair is quite courteous, guiding him in gentle motions to take the length a little deeper each time, until Anthony feels almost dizzy with the sensation of being thoroughly enjoyed. 

“Anthony, I cannot stand it, I must have you now.” Simon gasps, and Anthony can only cough a little and nod his consent as he is man-handled up and onto the bed. 

The experience is a thousand miles from the last time they shared a bed. Simon’s gaze is of equal greed to his hands, both of them roaming over every inch of Anthony’s body. Anthony cannot imagine the state he must appear – legs spread wide like the most accomplished lady of the night, unable to stop his body rocking helplessly on Simon’s fingers, already sweaty and flushed from head to toe. 

“Simon, come, surely it is time? Is it now your turn to tease?” 

“I assure you love, I would not surrender even a second to be within you, but I must ensure you are prepared.” Simon insists, trailing lips over Anthony’s jawline, his neck, his shoulder, and leaving sparks in their wake. Anthony heaves him up for a furious kiss, plundering his husband’s mouth until they are panting raggedly together. 

He goes to roll onto his front when Simon finally pulls free, only to stop at a hand on his hip and looks up enquiringly. 

“What is it? Is this not the position?” 

“It is one.” Simon says. He is slowly stroking himself with slick and the sight makes Anthony lick at his lips. Simon’s hand speeds up. “But I would have you another way, if you are willing?” 

“I trust you entirely husband.” Anthony says with a wink, and is not at all prepared for something startled and innocent to appear on his husband’s face. 

“What – call me that again.” 

“How do you mean? Husband?” 

“Yes.” Simon’s hands are firm on his hips, holding him on his knees as Simon positions himself on his back and then encourages Anthony to throw a leg over his hips. Anthony blushes again as he realises this position will allow Simon to gaze upon every inch of him. “Call me that when we are in bed together.” 

“As my husband wishes,” Anthony husks out, and begins to sink himself down. 

Great God, the stretch of it. Anthony can only take an inch at a time before pausing to pant for breath, Simon tight-lipped and dark-eyed and stroking him all over for comfort beneath him. The pressure feels even more overwhelming, like Anthony is being split open for his husband to fit inside him, a perfect fit for him and him alone, and he tells Simon this just for the delight of watching him shudder, his hands pressing bruises into Anthony’s hips. 

“God, Simon, husband, you must do this to me every night,” he groans, when he finally sinks close to the root. The space between his legs is singing with feeling, with sensations he cannot name, but his own length has never flagged for an instant, firm and proud in Simon’s warm hand. He gazes in helpless lust as the muscles of his husband’s stomach flex, bringing him close enough for a kiss. 

“Anthony, you are in perilous danger of never being allowed to leave this bed,” he warns. “This…Anthony, you will have to forgive me this first time though, I will not last long.” 

“Second time,” Anthony corrects, starting to move his hips and shivering at the sparks it ignites within him. It feels so good he is almost dizzy with it, and close to spending himself. Watching Simon arch and bite down on his lower lip sends a memory through him. “That is another insult you dealt me husband, telling me that your preference for men was to enjoy spending inside them, and then denying me the pleasure myself.” 

Simon’s groan is entirely heartfelt. “You would wish for that? Anthony, tell me truth, for I fear I will not be able to amend myself closer to the mark.” 

Anthony wants it. Every thrust of the cock inside him makes it almost impossible to breathe, fucking him open for his husband’s pleasure and his own. The thought of watching Simon find his peak still pressed impossibly deep inside… 

“Yes, yes, I want it.” He moves himself faster, feeling the aching burn in his thighs only matched by that in his balls. “God, Simon, I am going to come…” 

The hands on his hips tighten even more, and Anthony feels himself being lifted. For a moment he thinks Simon is going to deny him a second time, but he is only raised a moment and then – ah! Simon’s hips pound into him furiously hard, and Anthony can only gasp helplessly as he is split open and filled again and again. Finally Simon slams him down deep and Anthony jerks to feel the warm slickness inside him, feel it begin to drip down his thighs. His own climax is but a moment later, the fiercest he has ever felt, and he is helpless but to collapse on his husband’s chest and moan at the shift of the cock inside him. 

He must lose some minutes, because then Simon is nestled beside him, the covers wrapped tight to warm their rapidly cooling bodies. Anthony feels so utterly overwhelmed, and gloriously happy. 

“Husband. Simon. Husband,” he says, just for the joy of hearing those words and knowing them to be the same, that the impossible thing he thought forever out his reach has come to pass. Simon seems even more enamoured of them, nudging up against Anthony’s back. Anthony blushes to feel the soft form of his husband’s length against his behind. 

“Anthony, how am I ever to atone for the past few months?” Simon asks, regret full in his voice, and Anthony merely tugs him closer. 

“Do not ponder on it more. Our intentions were good, in that we both sought for the other’s happiness above our own, but I could rage when I think of how a simple conversation might have…” 

Simon presses a kiss against the back of his neck to make him shiver. “I could also rage, but mostly I am filled with an overwhelming gratitude that your siblings decided to storm Troy. Otherwise I might have nobly let you forestall that bill – I must confess, Anthony, I was quite unprepared for how arousing it is, watching you so casually plot to contest the _government_ – and disappeared off to the Colonies again. And then, may the Lord forgive me, it would have been even more years before I had you in my arms.” He squeezes Anthony again, who finds his hand and squeezes it back. There is a question he wishes to ask but he knows not how to give it voice. 

There is another kiss upon his neck. 

“Anthony. Ask.” 

“Simon…how long have you _known_ that you…” 

“Were utterly besotted with you?” Simon snorts. “Since about thirteen?” 

“Simon! Be serious!” 

“Very well, very well.” Anthony can feel his grin against his shoulder. “I have always treasured you greatly, I would hope you already had full notion of that. But at Eton I scarcely knew what my cock was for – so I would say Oxford, when my heart and my head and my…other attributes…all combined to make their joint interest known.” 

“I had no idea.” Anthony marvelled. “I knew you dallied with men at Oxford.” 

“Only once you took up with Wexford’s get,” Simon sniffed. “And I abandoned any hope of you taking such an interest in me.” 

“Dallied is the word. I have never been _interested_ in anyone but you.” Anthony responds. His husband envelops him even further, and Anthony feels utterly consumed by his love. 

“When did you…” Simon begins to ask, and Anthony twists his head for a kiss. 

“Realise they I was equally besotted with you? When you gave me Tommy Tildrum.” 

“A kitten.” Simon says flatly. “I could have coaxed my way into your heart and your bed at any point if only I had given you a _kitten_.” His voice sounds continuously vexed as Anthony begins to laugh and then cannot make himself cease. 

“It was not the kitten per say.” He is finally able to insist. “It was…it was proof in that moment that no matter how aggrieved you were at being forced into wedlock with me, you would still be a caring husband, and the friend I had always regarded so highly. I realised I was proud to call you my husband, and I realised quite suddenly how much that word meant to me in regards to you, that there would never have been any other I could have given that title to.” 

They lose several more moments engaged in tight embrace and fervent kisses, and finally settle down even closer together. 

“Hmmmm.” Simon says after a pause. “Do you think the Queen had any notion of what her meddling would lead to?” 

Anthony snorts. “None whatsoever. She sought to bring you to heel, and in the same swoop weaken the Bridgerton influence by removing me as head of the family.” 

There is a long pause from behind him. “She did not realise Benedict was perfectly capable of stepping into the role, and that now she has two of you to deal with politically?” 

“My mother made sure she did not realise.” 

“ _Bridgertons_ ,” he hears Simon mutter behind him. Anthony attempts to give a little stretch and is promptly crushed back against the other man’s body. 

“Simon – you realise you must let me out this bed eventually?” 

“Utter nonsense. Your family is perfectly capable of entertaining themselves, Benedict can finish your campaign, Mrs Coulson will manage the house, you shall stay here and be plundered by me repeatedly.” 

For a brief moment Anthony cannot speak for the bolt of lust that strikes through him. He also cannot stop himself from pressing back against his husband’s form, and the first hint of a growing firmness as Simon speaks of plundering him. 

“Already, husband? When I am still sore and dripping from you already once tonight?” 

“ _Anthony_. You _wretch_ ,” Simon groans, and Anthony wriggles round, alert now to that particular gaze of his husband’s, and what it bodes to. He spreads his legs so that Simon can fit better between them. 

“Here, husband, take me like this. I wish to see you.” 

“You said you were sore?” Simon asks, his hands already moving to purpose as he drops kisses across Anthony’s face. Anthony shivers at the blunt pressure of two fingers pressing against him, feeling the wetness left there. His makes his stomach heat at the thought of his husband spending there again. 

“I like it,” he murmurs, and Simon groans low, and reaches down to fit himself against him. The stretch is easier and far far worse, every sensation heightened as Anthony is ruthlessly pressed wide again, his husband claiming him now and forever more. 

“Anthony…” Simon murmurs, his lips as soft as his words as he moves within him. Anthony wraps arms and legs both around him and cannot help the smile any more than the blush. 

“You may also call me husband you know. I am yours now, of course.” 

“ _Husband._ ” Simon gasps, and meets him for a kiss, and Anthony is entirely, perfectly content. 

~ 

Violet takes a sip of her tea and looks out across the lawn. It really is such a delightful view. 

Even more delightful is the one to the side of her, where Daphne sits beside her Prince, their gestures and gazes tender. Violet has noticed, just a little, her daughter’s quiet declines of wine at the dinner table of late, and the slight fluctuations in her mood. She has the very highest hopes of a joyous announcement quite soon. 

It seems there is joy to go around, at the moment. 

“Are they still not awakened?” Colin demands, coming up to slurp at his tea as though he has just survived a desert. There are grass-stains all over his breeches. “It is the very last day of our visit, and I have scarcely seen Anthony at all. I cannot help but feel this is remarkably poor hospitality from the Duke.” 

“Don’t grump dear,” Violet chides gently. “They’re on their honeymoon.” Just saying the words fills her with the most effervescent sensation, as though all the weight of the past few months has just been lifted away. She has already written to Lady Danbury with the wonderful news and to share the feeling. “You should feel happy for your brother.” 

“Of course I do mother,” Colin says, bending to kiss her cheek. There are yells from the lawn as Francesca’s kite gets stuck in a tree and he groans. “Back to the fray!” 

“My diamond, are you quite comfortable?” Violet hears Prince Frederick saying in a tender voice, clasping Daphne’s hand. “Have you need of anything? Otherwise I shall join your brothers. I was a champion tree climber in my youth!” 

“I have no doubt,” Daphne smiles at him, with such tenderness that Violet must focus on her embroidery before her eyes quite well up. “No, dear husband, I am quite well.” 

“Lady Bridgerton, may I fetch you anything?” The Prince asks politely, and Violet is charmed, but declines, but then – 

“Oh, Prince Frederick –” 

“Please, Lady Bridgerton, to you I wish to be Frederick.” 

Absolutely not, but she will accept ‘mother’ at a future date. 

“Prince Frederick, I wished to thank you for your…most inspiring words the other day…” 

The Prince immediately exchanges a swift look with Daphne, who arches a gentle eyebrow and lets her gaze drift across the lawn. Frederick turns back and bows quite low. 

“Not at all. It was my delight to help my family.” 

“What a charming man,” Violet sighs happily, watching him stride across the lawn. She gives her daughter a look. “And how charmingly handled this whole visit has been, my dear.” 

“Thank you mother, I’m glad you approve.” Daphne says, returning the look. Behind them Cliveden stands quiet for the moment, awaiting its Duke and Duke-Consort to finally bestir themselves from bed. On the lawn, the rest of the family laugh and play and love. 

Violet takes a sip of her tea. She can let her son and his husband sleep a while longer, and join the family when they are ready. In the meantime, perhaps she and Daphne could speak of a new wardrobe for Benedict next season... 

There is no reason the rest of her children do not deserve the same joy their brother has found after all. She is most pleased. 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [iffervescent](https://iffervescent.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi


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